Crude perfection in the leaves
that shadows foster, dawn-light twist,
like sprawling fog from midnight weeds

That stitch the eyes' unhappy bliss
with apple-skin toned, craggy grain,
oft times squinting out to kiss

The ardent muse of darkling name,
the psyche, some Attic conviction,
hardly rampant, hardly tame,

But evident in lone admission,
something human, something carnal.
Inky tides by her permission

Make the salty soda sparkle
with phosphorescent whales of yore,
lake aurora, subtle, artful.

For years off the aft end of a score
the belabored leagues of ocean rumbled,
shaded shrieks at Satan's snores,

But met with tenderness are humbled.
Stilled and settled undulations
stagger onto shore and mumble,

"Seasons after suffocation,
sands like silk speak of vacation."

02/12/2008

Posted on 02/12/2008
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