Under Waves


The window’s sleeping on its arm.
The heavy heat lies dormant still.
Yet fingers of exploring breeze
Have crossed the blistered windowsill.
Like billowed sails, the lace exhales
And breathes out shadow waterfalls
That spill their lazy contours on
The gently moving kitchen walls.
This house is twenty-fathoms down.
Outside the garden can’t be saved.
Instead I’ll sit and watch, for now,
This submerged kitchen, under waves.


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