prose poetry

with her hair flaying wildly
rocked in the cradle of the deep
up from the south at break of day
the dawn was apple-green
the shadows of the ships
made up of loveliness alone
have we no shame?
moonlight deep and tender
and with the humming bird
my mother taught me that every night
i said, i have shut my heart
are you awake?
lady, your heart has turned to dust
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead