The winds sends bottles scuttling
in the inky outer thing
that coats my windows black.
Wrapped in my cocoon of tungsten light
I sit and contemplate the night
twixt dreamy shoals. I feel no lack,
my tongue is sate with chamomile,
languish legs in flannel piles,
I lazily put off going back.
The earth does not procrastinate
and so to honor the turn of date
and dawn, I to the next shoal tack.
originally written 29 February 2012