Kingdom of Weeds
Kingdom of Weeds
The sea has a host of new angels,
not ten miles off the Libyan coast where the boat sank,
ferrying men in its heart as time carries fate,
and drops them, with the living, on rocks
the shorehas prepared for them.
Last night there were voices there,
of lives being changed, those who made it
becoming dead also, to hold their breath
at the bottom and not ever be able to tell their story
to fishermen who talk with waves at night, never explain
how in a dinghy a child is calmed by giving it urine to drink.
They know gods and goddesses of the seabed, now,
who dwell beside Poseidon in his realm of weeds.
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