Aug 122011
 
The stars saw it happen, the sea
doesn't care--O-gape mouth
always roaring:  More!  More!
Here in Acadia the sea is cold
that was boiling.  Black as a chou's
tongue, scarves of volcanic rock
flowed burning--a silent heat!
Prehistoric birds circle in the updraft
for killed trilobites--a cookout--
All the land made death's;  the near sea, too,
dead, her back turned away riverlike.
No white grains of beach among the granite.
Cool eons until lichen like stars began
to dot it, winking pink, yellow, dull
grey-green in death's despite, in death's
despite gripping the naked tongue
whispering:  More!  More!

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.