Apocrypha
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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