STEVEDORE by Leslie M. Collins.

The enigmatic moon has at long last died.
Even as the ancient Cathedral Saint Louis
Peals has lazy call
To a sleepy solemn worship,
Night’s mysterious shadows reveal their secrets
And rise into nothingness
As honest days unfurls her bright banners.

The stevedore,
Sleep spilled on his black face,
Braves the morning’s rising fog,
The saturating chill.

As the sun burns itself out in summer brilliance,
Though his heart he sweated out
In water glistening from gargantuan shoulders,
He finds strength in his voice,
Singing of Moses in Egyptland,
Of yesterday’s untrue love.

By evening the sun-scorched stevedore has packed strange cargoes
On alien ships
Whose destinations stir no romantic desires.

All day
A little of his soul is put to sea.
And now that the heaven’s sun-burnt gold
Has quickened to deepest lapis-lazulli,
He turns an unkempt head

Homeward
To a dreamless slumber…