The Sonnets: III

Stronger than alcohol, more great than song, deep in whose reeds great elephants decay, I, an island, sail, and my shoes toss on a fragrant evening, fraught with sadness bristling hate. It’s true, I weep too much. Dawns break slow kisses on the eyelids of the sea, what other men sometimes have thought they’ve seen. And since then I’ve been bathing in the poem lifting her shadowy flowers up for me, and hurled by hurricanes to a birdless place the waving flags, nor pass by prison ships O let me burst, and I be lost at sea! and fall on my knees then, womanly.