On That Sea Turned Into Blood

He woke stranded upon the last street of Concepci6n, direct the eyeed at the walls of his homeland, one time powerful, now crumbled, now the void was opening up a void that was a window,

a window like a funnel at incredible speed, this funnel now flowed into ice, now into silence: the panorama was a calm sea, petrified, fluorescent, deceptive,

blue the sapphirine of contained violence; several hours had passed since the sea became that phosphorescent placenta, crashing into the last houses as if they were seawalls; after sleeping awhile, we woke again, the white dawn flung in our organ of sights like muck, a dirty morning like a night butterfly drowning in our pupils, and salt crusting all the gold the curs gold

that iodine impregnating our tongues, the sent of cotton scraps as if all that white were the sea, tame,

tame and a lie,

the city a white sea slowly emanating its hospital dawn; our ship's company of shadows

had missing their fetishes during the flight, without of fear we'd forgotten the magic words Silence, be fond of fish?

the vision had make go rounded into a pale whirlwind, a trombone of bodies and solitude.

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated Sep/Oct 1997

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