Sailing Clock

a piece of sky slanted like a fish
in the ovary of a poem yet to breath
I stitch the boat with all the dying words you left for me
left for me near the past


I saw how the fish washes the water of the words
and the early born blue
before the bird we crafted for each other

half out of water


the rose-red words are sucking the womb
and we are next to our present
the fish is turning to the rainbow of the lemon-oil
looking nothing but nailed


the boat caught at the bed…..