Our Respite in Mouths.

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From here to there is not so far a distance
lines short of breadth, easier to read instants
coming one upon the other, as in a capillary
My mother upon the ocean, where is the distillery?
 
A long line or a short, a harpoon and some water
that weary hath the coastline travelled, with father
After another, it is disaster averted
to an amoeba with lines fishing, ship refurbished
on the distant shore, a choir started to sing
and called forth from the air, a munificent ring
of sub-tones, timbres spare and pure, tear
ducts were primed, stuck writing and not throwing spears

A long last line, that’s the ticket; it will sell
partially from a wicket, perhaps at a game of cricket
dancing down the lane until all hell breaks out
tell-no-one because of its inarticulateness

Ring the Death Knell, or a heart, smartly quelled
to hand a rivet, in all proportion, heart swelled
Can you think of nowhere to stick it?

The Heart it smarts, how lapidary is that?
Rocks charted in their promontories, exact
Tit for tat now, medical kits stowed in the apse
of the boat’s prow, sedulous pap for the penny press

If you’ve got vertigo, I’ll go down with impetigo
lord have mercy, where do we go, sit down
collect sequoia dust, reel in the nets, sea gulls
have their impresarios, their petty thefts, but deftly
done in the summer-wet air, a torso with heft
ok, that was a bit of a stretch, go big, sea gulls to eagles

Don Juan leans the other way
like a pasta drenched in sauce bearnaise.
Rocks, citronella candled,
jazz cradled in my lap, nice place for a vaycay.

Jonah in the belly,
oysters on the counter,
water’s rising, Jelly
sperm whale lantern.

Stars to guide. The Gill Guild.
A rickety chair at the end
of the journey. A sturdy
chair for the boat. A dusty
anchor on the rust-top
boat seats.

Fire. It all ends in fire. Tweet