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Port Sleepers

they rest now
it's sunday
bows bruised
and rusted 
wrinkled tired 
flags dancing
with faces of 
faded patriotism
 
waves of distant 
consequence
only receiving
unenthusiastic
jumps of childlike
leave me alones
 
tattered lines
once pulled
this way and that
sleep in quiet
damp anxiety
over pulleys
whose solar
revolutions
routinely offer 
suffocating
definitions of
man's captive
subsistence
 
and antennas
now unnecessary
reveal the wind's 
strength and direction
without any effort
of their own

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