Thursday, 2 April 2015

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 27


The solstice drives a change of weather.

Frost sears the cape, in patterns

of snapped stars and carcass moonlight,

in the boat I made from fingernails of the dead

and zero in these islands.

Just breath in speaking clouds the panes,

rubbed clear to Bible-atlas cliffs beyond.

This scratch-mark quote,

its icy cursive on the glass, disproves

love’s physics and resolve— the change of weather,

on grey sand the waves’ grey subterfuge, some passing

present tense, lost among the breakers.

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