Clouds whisper silkily after the
bruised ankles of morning.
The white ligaments of this salty sea
stroke the soft hair of this tuna flesh,
with paintbrush fingers they lather froth
like the world's sweat,
turning electrocuted sunrise into
smoothed chalk and cotton moth wings.
And like a lightened night,
a night of grey and white,
hours crawl by undisturbed,
gelled to the premature night like
oil through water.
Like pale marble above bleeding flesh,
this sky sinks to the torn ground like an
oyster-white security blanket.
Ocean lays motionless and I
let every red grain of salt slip from my palms,
my eyes, lips, hair take on the pure
milk tone of the sinless sky.