Alive

to be alive is to sit in your chair
as the storms devour each fruit in the grove,
wherefore slowly drip dry eyes to a cove
that through torn curtains in broad windows stare.

watching scales incline until they stop fair
together, low moving are heard the drove,
looking for food with a starless sky rove,
and bright the crack from thick whips quickly flare.
 
a wide porch, cigar in mouth, and a drink
grips a hand that has poured what the night black
has left dead floating at a seashores's brink;

regarding the wind, loose lays set the tack,
thus all like a ship to the deep stunned sink,
drowned cast tall sprout on sands, fluted as wrack.