New poem: Edge Of

Edge Of

 

 

Near dusk, the separate sea and sky
die. Blue-green-grey and violet-black
stand back-to-back and her blood
swirls in his hair, merged
in heavy, deep, same sleep.

 

So drab, this two-in-one. So flat.

 

No moon, no sun ring chords
from separate spheres. No tension
in the place between, no force
seen. We won't hear steam
hiss from the space
where depths touch heights.

 

So bland, this cuddled mass.
So similar. So tight.

 

But lightning shows the edge again.
The off-shore storm that rips
and kills the blend. White heat
points, "There!" We see
wind pull clouds to death,
waves toss spray.

 

The blood-stamp, eye-print
memory of edge
will keep us
until day.