Glowing pearls of time are shucked from my oyster morning

as the slow rocking of a boat-weekend lulls me into sweet complacency. 

Here, now,

I am a god,

I am the ruler of the golden light and keeper of warm secrets. 

I am the womb-egg and the death-scythe,

the complete nothingness of the unfinished everything that teases the world with its uncertainty.


I have The Key and The Answer. 

I know The Thing To Do.


But the tides will not tolerate absolutism, and they come

like vestiges to claim me.   They sweep me up in a white-wash of fate and supplant me on a dune of humanness.  

I am arms and legs and flesh,


I am nothing but need.


Still the sun will dance

it’s red ballet 

Still it’s rays

will call the day

into another’s cycle,

and you will lose you

in the order

of someone else.


In the background,

the Gods will laugh,

            and the serpent will wind his poison tongue around the dead tree of your heaven.


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