Move Along (a Sonnet by the Summer Sea)

Move Along (a Sonnet by the Summer Sea)

Down here by the sea every word spoken is
a raven’s black wings bent and straining in
the updrafts over the dunes, it’s a gull’s
long throat stained orange inside with guts
of mussels freshly cracked open on crumbling
rock shelves and gulped down, a clamour over

collapsing white foam crests. There’s nothing
here, nothing but a black bind of seaweed
strands tangled around ankles, wrists, pale
throats. Nothing to see in the brine-softened
abdominal tissue split to expose fat’s slow
blue saponification under water. Nothing to see

but round-eyed skulls bleached and carved from
shells by the caustic sea, its grey impatient tides.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Death, Epistemology, Gulls, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Ravens, Sonnet, Summer, The Sea, Time and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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