in the water
a gaunt boat slips
from the grasp
of displacement

below

the ghosts of old men tend to their aches,
preferring the comfort of wrecks to
the frenzy of the middle aged;
the productive people searching
for ways to escape
their common predicament.

The young
ghosts fuck off,
scaring schools of fish
and startling the wind above them,
sending it flying into oblivion,

if

I can be cliche for a minute
whose to say that
things fade in death?
perhaps they just slip from our view.
Life, if nothing else, feels constant.

Its left to the children
to sit, eyes ablaze, and greet the old
ship slipping, falling
like a feather falls,
through the water.