Skyboat

The broken canes’ ideogrammatic
flourish out the cut-black, weed-rude water
descends the glassy sky. Matter
unseals it’s fact in an adept
image, edge-burned and bound,
of prime significance to the pilgrim downed
in late summer; all uttered by, unfound
of it’s conception, the reeds’ arrangement:
their diagonals; the display; the moment.

The ass ends up of dabbling ducks mirrored;
headbroad, seizing deep in the mud-set bog,
brute law upends a polliwog.
Sprung duck repairs, buoyed on frog’s wyrrd,
rippling like vintage glaze,
just under, like the Christ’s foot when storms raise
divers’ eyes (light-minded, bright chrysoprase).
Consuming skins of fragments, sightless levels
are illuminant by swallows’ revels.

Birdsworthian filaments of vision
reeling out to the red-wing’s spongy verge,
where blue damsels and dragons merge
Love’s selves, spurred through in elision,
rhyming like fractal news,
spinning through isthmus and several sloughs,
unflattening the things as they are used,
mapped onto the radios of eyesight,
transformed, beamed, received in the body’s twilight.

Which threads are strung on hazel eyes of bulrush
along the dim, soul-settled, lake-vault shore.
Ossifrage vans (in a far soar
or back-beating while eyeing fish,
talons notorious,
simply osprey in his sky, furious,
endlessly emptying, stoop glorious)
claim purple hills that, by sun’s exit, mute
their tints, drawing closer to absolute.

Out like stars, the flickers, wrens and waxwings
hie home to their dream of velvet verdure.
Sprinklers lave the wormy green gyre;
uncanny darkness soothes all things.
Jettison the flotsam floating
in foamy moons of mood; gems are boating
overhead in the streaming milk, shooting
out into the pools and airs and eddies,
aligning fate, from apogee to Hades.