wake to be still
drifting again along the eye’s sea
coast; chance, the randy surfer
guzzler of continents
and girled grit arrivings, head
blown soft above the
headlands, slide and drown
of belly wave, muscle
knocked trapped boomed
darkening down
dives
under groundfoam nothing
slipping above, below
between the shrilling
laugh of the land breathers
surging under drumming
eared oceans.
Dreaming again:
a taste of salt veins
naked around night
rings, the splayed girl
strapped to the spinning chair
whirling with the glistening
of the silver whore
fate, white through
the mango bushes
under the headland
then soft lipped
into wave groaned
shivering to the breath of moons’
tide
her sea-hair
falling to a blind star’s
cold dancing.
— John Stokes
