The language of swallows’ wings

Does blood make poets of us all?

Maybe it is how nature keeps accounts,

Makes sure we have tributes to throw

Into the jaws of the abyss.

Slide back down the spiral

The red tide 

Leaves me 

Shell-less

See-through as the jellyfish 

I recall

The diver courting the cold :

“In the beginning,

Unbearable,

Breathe and allow.

With the turning of the seasons

It will become

Your haven.”

My eyes drink his images

The pristine underwater forest,

Jealously guarded by violent waves.

How deep do we need today

To dig

To reach

A haven of uninterrupted wild?

On the earth’s body,

In the temple of the mind...

blood pulls me into its

Sinkhole, 

Exploring cities-under-cities,

Forgotten boneyards,

Old spells written in the language of swallows’ wings 

And the now so clearly

Rolling deck of the ground,

No anchor to pretend to

External 

Stillness

In these waters.

“Free man, always,

You will cherish the sea.”

(Said Victor Hugo)

This garden holds the whole constellation,

Freedom, man, sea 

and longing.

#bloodpoem