Hierophany

The sea leads to the cork-board sky
of stars linoleum-like and exam-ready.
Collared necks sweat furiously, sweatered
ships twist and creak—the eighth horseman
projects herself abroad, devoid of subject,
matter, and jurisdiction.  No one knows
her civil breast, which arches nipple-free; bends
to the core beneath; stretches to heaven above.
Water flows one to each folk.  Red ink, red wine.
Everyone is the master of form.  His form.
The form we carve ourselves.

This entry posted by J Rand : 08:56