by Gideon Burton
I know I have explained the crimson waves,
the troughs of lucid pigment washing stain
across the iris, through the lens. The caves
of light that safeguard what is cool and plain
ascend, they say, but in the oily depth
the heated ink congeals against the doors
of what we plumb. Not even eels can guess
the thinning length of it, the rocky floor,
the tepid surface moonlight floating weak,
unfiltered by the viscous undergrowth,
the staid and steady vessel where the creak
of new antiquities relinquishes its smoke.
At least, I know we swam this course before:
no water, not a ship to claim the shore.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Nataraj Metz
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