lost

lost, nothing scurrying,
up my head, down my spine,
i room in a hut, shelling corn,
a portrait of an island, silver-framed
the sand-coated air, winnowing
strands of hair, around my face,
i am wearing nothing, except these,
a string of sea-shells, leaves
i am aching for something new
to surround me more than the agony
of this place, divided from my heart,
the first passenger to leave me,
since i came, the last time i saw
the harbor stretch and sweep the sky
is the only thing real to me now,
if i could return to you, my city
would you become less real,
more shadow, swallowing the streets
would you last with me in the sun?