15 May 2011


Squally 5/15

Here dwells the direful Shark. Lur'd by the Scent
Of steaming Crowds, of rank Disease, and Death,
Behold! he rushing cuts the briny Flood,
Swift as the Gale can bear…

                                                            James Thomson

The sky is endless, is fire
it meets the sea, begins
throwing against the sides of the ship
threatening a breaking point

Small circles of blood
like ripples, petals in a pond
multiply and burst over the coming gales
they paint the water, soften, go clear

Who are these mouths
that go as buzzsaws, take the wood of the masts
make matchsticks and toothpicks
then dye them burgundy

Everything is open, then closed
everything is a mass of white-tipped cotton
striking against the ship
the world goes up in flames

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