by Gideon Burton
The atmosphere, a sort of cooling jelly
that makes the housetops tingle as it sets
anaesthetizing sunrays on the belly
of this the firmament of our regrets.
The ocean, though it quivers, something wooden,
against whose splintered grains we push our eyes
until no moon, no acid tide, no sudden
reproach assigns fresh crimsons to this rise,
this cumulation, boulders swallowed over
and over any tree-lined crest or crag,
the thunder heads descending though they hover,
their rains to come though aspens cause a lag,
a bleeding of the moisture at the heights
of hesitation, darkly northern lights.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - ~jjjohn~