low-tide (in two movements)

mudflats, maze-like,

straining mercury

through channels wide as giant’s capillaries.

 

as water into wine,

the steady salt and brine

transmutes to ichor, draining out to sea.

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“Involuntarily, I glanced seaward – and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away”

 – F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Great Gatsby’

 

Across the digital bay

a beacon, small and green,

flashes, and is gone.

 

The current: silent, static,

but for a spare grey tick –

the crest of curious interest

 

not piqued enough to peak

and break the radio-waves.

From Sylvan Scene to Silver Seas

Airborne swimmer, in flight, she does not cling to herself; she is dispersible, prodigious, stunning, desirous and capable of others, of the other woman that she will be, of the other woman she isn’t, of him, of you.                                                                                                                                                –  Hélène Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa, p. 260

Oak-dark eyes.

Lips, bitten, blossom forth

Rose-raw.

 

They ache to explore

That dark and dew-sweet place

Where tongues – like vines – embrace.

 

The stirring swell of waves

Which urge to break between her thighs

Come to crest,– collapse in salt-edged tides.

ENVOY

And raw human meat was piled, and steamed.

Silence split at the seams as the living groaned.

 

Rope-ladder ribs in concert breathed

With the light lapping laughter of giddy sea.

 

The breaking of waves, a hand which beckoned

To kinder soils; yet stasis settled

 

As suits and clean faces crooned sympathy

(Then moved mildly away, muttering ‘policy’).

 

So salted globes on cheek-bones stagnated;–

Even the movement of human tears, halted.