Friday, March 28, 2014

fyglia



they contort each other
the anchor and the ideogram

one so as to be remote
and the other as sky
to test the buoyancy
of emptiness

pale grey oxidants

some imagine these
heavy overwrought black iron hands
wringing together
but the hip of the sailor cocks
toward the pivotal flic
no cigarette ever touched the water



sing seagull
sing crooked alley quai
in the valley of monumental bobbins

maru maru
in overcoat

the twin white lines
turn and go taut
where the twin black lines
interrupt their angles

throw a sponge in the oily ocean
these steel tri-pods of anarchy
will lift

every stevedore heart
but the spy lives more prudently

black tar table
holding only twin
black tar tablets
and with no legs

the gorgon eyes of the anchor
could be pushed up like eyebrow-hands

roman numerals
and poppies