Poetry
by John Swain
White
Shell Point
Gulls circle like a diamond pendant on
the spindrift
where the ships move rhythmic as your breathing,
mists of the domed sky veil the curvature of sails.
Frothing white caps moisten the dissolving shore,
serpents of sand grains entwine and chase themselves
as sea oats bent tortured where there are no flowers.
Lightning floats where the enraptured sea collapsed,
a shell in my pocket spiked my thigh like a tooth.
I sought nothing to preserve much as the grist
like salt in our mouths as the darkening light scatters.
Swarms hummed over the dunes past lizard tongues
while another brood emerges from a buried dulcimer.
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Set
Apart Before the World Was Made
Gale chains embrace horizon like relief
portending a source of new water.
I brought a simple cup
and you kept the signets pressed into wax.
We slept beneath the wall
like wolves bound under snow
and in the morning
dawn expended its tithe of starling flocks
to the merlin.
Although the light is given first to you,
it is my only guide.
Impermeable stone bowls trap our rainwater
like an honest forgiveness.
The way is safe,
after we burned the heart and gall
upon a fire of fragrant leaves
in the corner of the closing room.
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One
Day's Warmth
Tiers of naked willows cling to the rock
and silt
where coal dust from the river blackens the shore,
skies beguile the correspondence of mutual bodies.
Polished stones of every color soften our fingers
like the shell of a dead turtle fully preserved,
gulls swirl in chaos where turbines churn the fish.
Rains of warring legions trample the domed ceiling
while I taste bits of grape like your forgiveness,
with one day's warmth the hillside spasms violet.
Water laps against the escarpment like a pendulum
as shadows paint the length of our tired faces red,
there weathering becomes chrysalis for our moth.
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Ambergris
Lantern
Winds sweep across the vaults of sea
as dolphins arch like a tender guard.
Rune gusts on the surface water writhe
like a dance of possession
while your daughters chased gulls on the sand.
The osprey perched in a dead tree like a shaman.
Saltwater distills into the bluest sky
burning like myrrh
I inhale the treasure of your body's fragrance.
The sea of light burns like a lantern
in our stone window.
I dreamt incense smoke to praise your presence
then the ashes traveled like winged seeds
lucid as love's idea.
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John Swain lives in Louisville,
Kentucky. His work has previously appeared in Rust and Moth and
the Journal of Truth and Consequence.
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