The wide canvas ocean
drips down into salty mists
to finally condense in a thick blue
wine
and lick with an icy tongue
the rolling Land- an ancient sea bed
Long silver pikes swim through pines
their
glass irises black
a window into Void
forests sway to rhythm the water's currents
cold
as needles
they propel each other, to and
through.
There, walking on grime
a myriad fishermen fathers covered
by algae
and
tepid barnacles
eyes locked, they push and hoist
there and back
there and back
through
shaded crags filled with tobacco tea
Where stone slabs, megalithic pillars look up, towards the loud sun
gulls cry their orders to the buffet of life,
and see only their own reflection on the
silver waters
But below the mirror
among dancing seaweeds
'dem
groin hairs of the sea
live sly, mongrel bodies.
-
Jim Stein
