The front portholes and side-scuttles of the old stone terrace opposite my writing room
had been permanently closed for however many months I'd been looking

then just the other day they were uncovered, the people there moved out, hook, line and sinker,
and the pieces of cloth that had hung, striped like the tunic a of sailor, were peeled away and
packed in a transit, the shut lids firmly anchoring their privacy suddenly thrown open, so I could see
right through each deck of this vessel, its empty windows like eyes after days of weeping, or a ship
let loose on the ocean, pointing bow then port then starboard to the promise of hills beyond

Chapmanslade,
Westbury,
Dilton Marsh,
Upton Scudamore,
the Deverills

Like us when we are blown apart and lost,
I see through to the other side of us,
the beckoning currents,
moons shepherding
the limpid tides,
splashing
treasure
pirated
inside
my
chest

*side-scuttles are the portholes located on the side of a ship