Horizon seethed with demons of the night,
thin smell of fish, raw cries of gulls, disoriented
wind winding hopelessly among the scented
half-sunken rocks, with their bleak foresight
transforming space to time, and depth to height,
arranging, rearranging what has melted
within yourself - forsaken, accidented,
but persevering doggedly, despite
this rage, and salt, and howling of the waves,
saxe locks of algae tossed upon the shore,
abyss that fulminates, explodes and cleaves:
I only wish it cancelled me, before
I turn myself into a schist, a shell
shaken by breakers like a tongueless bell.
On My 37th Birthday
© Copyright: Vlanes, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106092800369
Свидетельство о публикации №106092800369
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