The Amniotic Briny
Glaucous eye of Homer
inscrutable, then turquoise shoaled
violet, wink of the wisp,
down the man-mountain she draws
me, slow of step, rapt in her procession.
Her breath is on my face
as I barefoot hard shingle.
Returning, all are returning who gaze
into milky luminescence and the grey
lanes between continents, where the meagre glides.
I long to be inside her.
But you can't swim. Remember?
You sank, a fist of resolution.
When her white thighs closed round your head
your ears screamed 'Death! '
and you clutched horizons.
When I see her again, she spits ice-
pure in my beard of belated.
She is incubating winter:
of women not yet born