I wonder did Gulliver,
Sleeping by the tiny beach at sea,
Feel the little ants clamber up his limbs
His feet, his thighs and his knee?
Did he feel tired under the sky,
Watching the clouds
As the little ants of his past
Searched and searched forever
For Gulliver’s hidden doubts?
Perhaps Gulliver was forever
In a waking dream of a corpse
Slowly withering away
Under a mountain of ants
Who broke his body into sugar
Before dumping his soul
Into the wide blue sea.
Love can be heavy,
Thicker and more viscous than the metal
That moves like a sea.
It can languish like an anchor
Docking a thousand shadows on your shoulders,
Like the many branches
Of far too many trees.
It can take the shape of tired arms,
It can sing the carols of tired goodbyes;
It can be like a letter from a long dead friend
And it can hover like a swarm of flies,
Sucking the rot of that letter away.
But Love is more than a healer,
Or a good feeling of a prime,
It’s the marksmanship of a poet,
And the prisoner of its time.