The Gyre

Notions are hardly worth their whimsy, rising as oblong pockets from
Feathered beds below the glassy sheet of calm.  Nature turned her head
Away while coughing, politely sparing us the lurches and trauma here
As distant to one place as to another. No state or nation or kingdom
Within the sound of our still ocean cradle, resting our feet instead
Along the dark-shored island, floating but not drifting, our deepest fear
On its way to greet us. But that’s only half of it. The others continue
Spreading the dullest sunshine of hope from beach to dotted beach,
Solvents disbursing the beads of lives lived before fines imposed
Language flowering from tongues tasting another tart idea in you,
Sharp and bitter in tone and meaning, piano strings tuned each (more…)

Searching for a Sacred Clone