Mercury, running

Copsed in the pale light

of after-office,

your soft shoes crunch

the gravel

of an ancient

water table. Eyes

fixed

on aqueduct arches

springing up

in the space

between every tree.

When once you laced

on wings to bear

possibility, today you carry

epistles fished

from the Sargasso Sea.

Powdered scrolls, rusty hooks,

bloated bones rising

through the lonely lull

of lightless-space. You

understand the import

of air, the old adages

of every ocean. That

the heart does not have

an immortal horizon.

Just a sway like the dry-germ

of October

wheat, unaware of its own

beginning.

Author's Note

2015