Salt Water

The vision of him appeared like the maybe
of drowning, to a soul in the shocking embrace of an undertow and
I broke the surface of the dream in a gasp of being lost,
wretching, that traitor pumping salt water, not blood.

Fathoms deep,
beyond splintered shipwrecks, in ink-pitch chasms,
lurking with spinal taps of teeth and pinpricks of phantom light
which writhe and glide on nothing, as nightmares do,
there, I knew then that 
hope was cradled in the sunken caverns of my skull

Pandora’s prize as a chest,
In veins, 
In lips pooled like neon bright reflections in seaside rain puddles
In the rusted copper piping of my waterlogged guts
–It all leads back to the ocean.

Hope.

Hope that someone will succeed in the 
bathtub drowning domestic that he didn’t
because I’ll be damned to live like this
scared to swim, 
and coughing up salt water. 

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Sonnet #3

To know it, you must know starlight
Be acquainted with night’s face, the deep of dusk’s insistent lips
And put your hands not put to waste, stroke forth indigo night
unafraid of ink stains, rusty pen tips.

Brave the haunted gleam, but sweet from afar
Proves dead when seen in closer space
Life’s breath stays each burning star,
Some things unwiped from the moon’s tired face.

Endure atmospheric tension, burn to raze skin
Sear worth and joy to weary bone
Yet beneath the vast ceiling of night, dulcet sin,
When dawn pale grows, will find man alone.

Dusty pinpoints upon which lovers’ eyes rely.
We wait for dusk’s return, once again to try.