Wednesday, February 25, 2004

I like Bogue’s poem; visit it in its original form at AS/IS:

Michael Bogue's “The Moon Herself” (Dagzine Remix)

The moon sleeps
turbulent; air
nowhere to turn
turns inward,
coriolis fire,
retina flame.          My
      hidden hurricane,
      detritus words,
      collateral damage,
      stirred drowning,
      pages torn.

The morning chorus.
The sea.

Starfish fictions
born of exile stars,
unaccountable miles
Atlantic turning,
sea brine brume,
westerly bound.     Ship
      hunkers down,
      anchors, pins,
      Atlantic's collar,
      lassoed siren,
      lighthouse light

thin as mashlum, bannock

marbles lost in play.
Grounds of grey,
sixth circle in
sixth circle in
Hades, stars, heart
and horizon
guide us.              Stout
      gulls do guide
      our journey
      to an end.

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