wool, felted and merino, for windows and for bed; are these prices that i can afford? is life for labor, and if so, what will be born of it?

it is
a grayling morning
in a southeast harbor.
i am hollow,
ghostly
in plastic,
womb
of a sailing vessel.
its sails are tucked away.
i know not
how to use them, even
if unfurled in grandeur
of utility.
a small wood fire
chuffs agreeable heat
in a tiny woodstove.
a dehumidifier quietly
roars, tasked to keep
all this eager water
at bay. perhaps, at
harbor.
the morning is
gray
and i am
ghost;
caffeine cajoles me
to rapidly complete
my ministrations of
nothingness.

life is living
and i know i am alive
by the silently
sloughing cells
that cascade in my
muttering wake.
they gently settle on
synthetic surfaces and
fecund beds.
the lucky ones will wade
into a thorough rest,
before they are woken to
reassemblage, to bring
the grace of their death
back into the skittering
hum of Life.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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