landscape metaphor

later, abandoned to some tide i knew nothing of,
waters under my hull incompliant as a greased pig,
i washed ashore. the sun, folding into the ocean,
cast out light with the thin freshness of blood,
the tall trees dyed roseate pink, rich, and smoke blue,
the light catching on certain vertiginous edges of the things i saw
as though they were strange sacral objects
scattered with glass beads.
there were hot winds beteeming me like breaths,
curving like the pink inflesh of shells;
the trees danced, ruching against themselves
like a bespangled curtain
in a deep-colored illustration
leapt from its page,

leapt like flames, snapping,
tensile, in on fine red air.

i crawled into the sand,
my hand
tasted it. retained heat
rolled
up to me, damp warmth,
and my breath met its
fine
exhalation.

no-one around--
no-one to seemy exhaustless
devotions.
my ship rolled
away into night
on the rickety
water
and i lay
reverencing the shore.