Saturday, March 13, 2010

Incisions, crimson, ripple down the skin

I watched a National Geographic show about Angkor Wat, Cambodia with the kids. Mysterious, ancient, eerie. This poem seemed to fit the image of this library in ruins from that strange spot in Asia.

Incisions, crimson, ripple down the skin
by Gideon Burton

Incisions, crimson, ripple down the skin
of western sky, as though the other side
were blood and thunder stanched by timely light.
The remnant moisture glistens in the thin
and thinning twilight. Vapors melt, subside,
relax into oblivions. The might
of sunrays abdicates, the crickets’ fright
is amplified in quickened thrums. The dried
and sullen face along the rising moon
approves or disapproves in measured pride,
and if and when a thunderhead compiles
in thickening stealth, the moment is too soon:
our Amazons are filling full and wide
with tempered salt, with sinners rank and file.

Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo credit: flickr: stuck in customs

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