Poem #100
The wave form, flesh of white fruits
And pre-dawn rain. A taste of open water
That could down you in an inch.
Earth signs mark the southern passages.
Wheat bores from holes perceived as stars.
Asphodels. Yellow-green scents on the tongue.
Speak in triplets like pressing a flower.
Portals of blue and purple, between states,
Before the invention of time gave words to
Our distances. Something pulls at the back
Of my eye, a slip between the red horizon,
Superimposed from another place entirely.
I will tell my children the sky is the colour of pomegranates.
I will show them that the long river’s pull is like walking on the moon.
I will wash them in the slow days between then and now.
A version of me must carry it.
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