The drowned fisherman
has a way back
on the tip of the waves.
It reaches back
not his home
but his woman's heart.
In wee hours of the night
she could still listen to it.
In waves that die out bubbling,
his luminous eyes
would wink at her alone.
Sea gulls would still wrangle
with someone at the zenith of the sea
burning by day.
Sound of bike across sand beach.
A dagger between eye brows-
the micro-finance man.
Hiding behind the hut,
her sobs would merge with waves.
He might be there like Jonas
at the zenith of the blue:
A benevolent sea beast
would carry him in womb.
A rebirth without corporeal decay.
In a spring day
as the tree of life sprouts and blooms
when the moon mix with shade
this ever-serene whale
would deliver him unto land.
His urchins fighting waves
would still wake up into
his midnight calls.
