Aeaea
No matter how wide the horizon gets
you are always on an island.
Becoming a shipwreck is
a god’s prerogative
but it’s easier
than you think
pressed between miles of
absolute colour
like a fly on a Mondrian.
The sea offers me
so little
blue waste with a human
voice. Cough me up some red
scrap of man and the seagulls
will burn all night.
Give him salted palms and
the stomach
for worship
I will give you the best parts
to eat. Even now
the sound of
gilded wings. Listen—