S.O.S.
ocean brine against the bulwark.
Rocking gently back and forth,
Sols light reflects.
Spots swim before the eyes.
Off, on the horizon
twin stream of salvation.
Distance, on a near featureless
expanse, difficult to judge.
My brain, dry as
a paper wasps nest,
buzzing with non-existence
Stung, mirages once too often.
I lay my head down,
parched, charred, red finger
on the trigger of the flare gun.
The twin columns of smoke pass,
There is that
buzzing,
again.
