Death, you are a restless spirit.
Look at the moon. Two hands against the glass
the stentor sea is a violent thing, and she walks
into a dreamt-away night, tumescent and spilling;
the moon watches on with cackles and sambas of her own,
O’ moon, let your daughter, pithless, step into the world;
The rock builds sand; tendons are red covering the garden bones,
your perfume blooms, how could I have forgotten it? The ocean hangs
on its side.
Chipped ice, sparkling behind women; I dreamed of footsteps
beyond the headland. Feathers traveled in Canterbury to die,
only perfected by the moon.
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First featured in Free Verse Revolution’s Sunday Best.