The sea, still as a salt marsh,
licks at the underside of our craft
which is made out of sinew and desire.
Our movements have slowed to match
Saturn’s rise: the serpentine jaws
of Time widen, then dislocate.
We are drawn into the belly
of our fused nerve centres
and in the absence of breeze we are
more sucked than blown into
the caverns of immediacy.
Your tongue‑tip has cracked the meridian,
your finger‑ends have stripped the cover
from the night. My eyes have regained
the force of tides; my ears,
the elusive depths of silence.
The sky’s split reveals a vault
of living tissue and as the Goddess
whitens her Pierrot face her image
is mirrored in the hold of our boat
which now weeps red with joy.
A music like none other I´ve heard
echoes from within my own breast.
I can determine the wave’s light slap
against the prow of our boat,
the cry of sea-birds impatient for the dawn:
the knock of submerged crab-shell
and pebble against the harbour‑wall.
Tags: blood-red, raw, The Moon is full