Open seas & A clash of civilizations
[ poetry - july 09 ]
Yesterday was too rough to write,
the life-raft stayed barely aright.
Out here, navigation's not
a length of steel rope but a knot
of strokes, a Chinese
pun-sign. My knees
crushed into a ridge, I see
summits collide in the sea,
valleys grin. The reel
of the hull is stomach-real:
I survive on dry bread.
Below me, billions have bred,
but no one can make me sure
that a thin line is the shore
in the horizon's orange-red,
the report I've sometimes read.
A clash of civilizations
Two plump glasses, ready for red wine:
pincer their stems like chopsticks.
Clink them on the curve they're cathedral bells.
On the rim, they're tingling cymbals.