I.

The water cold, granting lungfuls of air,
Borrows mother’s warmth
In its undulas.
And in its level does it
Raise all fair
Grains:
Sand grains — low onto yon field of brass.

II.

Sight ill directed,
Along the smooth curves
Impressed on memory. Nay,
Mammary,
Nay, recollections,
Long gone; yet still
Serves nervous purposes —
Preservatory
Of that quality, wherein
The sclera,
That whiteness of the eyes
Is captured full.
To displaced local hills therewith.
Clearer
Still, the smoldering dust
Obsessed and dull.

III.

And the eye follows that budding flower,
Blooming pink,
Rosy,
Rosé, whilst sands flair
White
Inebriating sight,
Which cower eyes from their functions,
Masterful and bare.

And I, having stood from afar,
Witness
That secret world.
A word received by mouth to nurture sight again.
That grand fitness
Given by Nature’s folly.
To the South, against Jocasta’s warnings,
Hereafter shall we all go afterward.

[This poem will be featured in my upcoming novel, A Fortnight by the Sea of Aegeus.]
Gumbet,
September, 2023.