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Paleface
By Paul Cameron Brown
Old Sawbones, pale as a sheet,
white sand, whispering edge of the sea.
II
The mind tarries not one place long,
(longitudinal wanderings off a map).
Is shiftless, both a shirker (and army deserter)
devours like larvae,
a bullet ledge for leaves.
III
I saw in a rusty tankard
a gallon drum
(ghostly galleon at that),
a tin can floating for
all the world shores
of its alkaline prison,
pirating salinity with anchoring sounds,
brackish bench-pressed sound of waves
wedged between far-off distant gulls
and mezzanine,
dimly-lit funeral parlour
of the sun.
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