Iron Lung

Davy Jones is wandering on the beach
in his raggy sailor suit
with the golden cuffs, silk tassles,
cockle shells hung from his neck.

He stumbles with a bleached look,
smiling at the clouds,
where the faces of his daughters
shimmer like piano strings.

At the white horizon, atlas moths
fall silently into the air,
streams of them, like water
boiling off into clouds.

The sun is crying for bones.
There are vultures overhead
with love and hunger for the man.
Raggedy Davy seascarred Jones

crosses his crossbone heart.
He's a shade, kind of a mirage
made of aether and bandages
dragged across the shifting sand,

and he is growing tired.
His body is five fathoms down,
crushed two hundred tonnes
in the black lung of the sea.