poetry
 
 
tip of the bomb

From a Makeshift Bed

The Straits of Magellan

strange and true and green and huge and

waiting

beneath seven miles

of ocean.

reflecting blades of daybreak

grass, breaking toward the break

of day and breaking

into the space

of the sky

at the far horizon.

rising

like an art

and like a knife.

a blue-green hue,

that line where the sky meets the sea.

and the rowers row to oblivion,

straining rum-soaked

oars

and sun-stroked

minds,

hallucinating JÚsus walking on water

in the shape of a slaughtered

lamb, bleeding

good luck

coins,

plopping

down

to the bottom of the blue.

falling, failing, dove-less olives

returning to Atlantis.

deep, deep down where the dead men go,

on their way

to the center

of the earth.