The Nacreous Oughts

22 April 2004

"Return To Exile

She lay all night between the hot wind's hands.
In a sheen of moonlight once a sun burned
darkly in her thighs.

The wanderer home
rehearsed his loneliness in tales
of orchards and tall cliffs where flowers
grew like a disease, foaming on every rock.
And some found there the answer to their act
but he had drawn the beach and swung his keel
into a newer ocean. Still his sex
positive as a needle pointed on
till he returned from a facetious legend, came
a dark sun in the midnight of her memory
after what century of absence to the arms
he had escaped in seven separate oceans.
She was the danger in the sirens' cry
the agent desperate of his enemy
whose song the dip-wing terns brought
whose hands curled the threads of drag and breeze
and tightened home. He laboured. He found.
All night she lay between the hot wind's hands
voyaging through with a ghost grace, with
the grief of a whisper voyaging."



Alas, Jennifer...

K. S.

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