Robert Verdon, #340, Vegging

seaweedy

rainpods burst

a tetragrammatoned teapot of fine grain upends

an ocean liner

dreams of revolution

noonday squalls

spin like bullets under the golden rain tree

 

sea-spray on cunjevoi

out at the Point

chamfered scuffed plastic protractor

barely used

floats out of the desk drawer

accusingly

as a razor on an eyeball

sofa-snooze ceases

lawn dry as crêpe paper

there is too much day today

the night will be deep

I will plumb my ancestors

and talk to my dead

in the high droning black sky

an ineffable armada

is defeated

by a glittering comet