5/Rosary of Summer

This then is the finality of troubadours, countries:
In the ruins of leaves & metals, we rake
lost form & centaur songs until mud oozes forth
from the eyes of trees—

We quickly turn ice-blue:

Wind shrouds us, white as whales,
floating on schooners of light
speeding through our interior hearts:

We are the sailors & the sailboats
masts hurled into the thick dark wall of fog
where seagulls roost
flock toward an ocean of signs, stars

Our manuscript is Cassandra’s alchemy
of words—
Yet wine casks are truer kinsmen to all wounds—

Thus naked to the bone—
crones of shrivelled breasts & loins,
easy riders knifing amazons—
we pick up mottled
seawashed pages of our circular flight

Like an aristocracy of Bernardones
moaning on the shore

O Storms always break out, as foretold

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