Statue

there is a dull ache to these bones;
they gather for no reason —
until death casts its final glow,
and then they will bathe in triumph.

victory has its own mutiny;
paw-broke pirates and dead hats
cling to the final frame
of the still-shot camera.

and we live to breathe again,
out here in the evening,
in the morning, and the afternoon,
like sailors seeking dawn.

I hold you intensely,
for that is the only way
a poet knows how —
and the night is like a statue.