What are these stones at the shore to meet me? They are the cobbles —
Clast of rock, the high-water mark, gravel for a drowning pool.
In a aging veil that molds to my face, they are leading me to the sea;
Graying finger-joints flinch slowly in the blackened waves; why am I cold?
I am nude in my reasoning — the gulls are nodding, their tinfoil eyes winking;
Wading into the milkweed seaweed with tendrils grasping,
I cannot run, I am rooted in its spiky armor;
Breastplates of waves knot under my arms.
This barren body, untied from its disguise, exhausted from someone I knew;
The long white box is adrift in a sea of flowers,
A rector its agent with buttoned-down cuffs, a hymn, a prayer —
Is it the orchids that smell so sick?
Dream of a duel that will inevitably win — yet in my cells the new virgins,
Magicians in a blackout of bones. My smile and voice
Are changing, no longer a curtain of wax dividing them from a personage;
Life no longer running to the end of everything.
Copyright © 07/29/17 lance sheridan®