I lay on a striped drape laced with painful colours of a obscure fruit with deep roots in a language
that my mouth won’t make.
It settles in sabled solidarity with origins that gaze to the edge of infinity’s mist somewhere more, or less, beyond what I can see.
The waters swell pitch and bright with the spirits of ancient mariners nine fathoms deep,
then creep to a fuzzy froth that hasten coconut crust,
salmon’s lust, golden dust.
The froth returns, as it wills, upon the shifting foreshore
bringing Grimm tales, damsels in distress, revolutions,
peaceful wars, waring peace, someone left behind;
back to a past that returns to the future.
It appears again and again with secrets of bounty,
bristles of thistle, a single word, a prophets command
whispered upon the virgin’s breeze to cleanse the
siliceous remains of events born of distant horizons.
In time the fuzzy froth will rest all things; never, though, without the bloody bodies of boys.
The letters in their pocket begin with whatever,
end with however; then retreat to the bygone mist forever.
More, or less, beyond what I can see.
Châz
