The sheen on the water is mercurial
in more ways than one,
a cornflower film indicative of talc,
miniature clouds that catch on a wisp
with cilia-like hands that grasp
and grasp-
in avoidance of the waterboatman
passing through,
I imagine this is what Odysseus felt,
sweeping over the River Styx,
his breath held in his throat
and his lungs tight against the water’s movements,
there’s no ore but just a
glimmer of light,
a powdery layer that covers the lake,
holding small moments of wonder
No comments:
Post a Comment