Robert Verdon, #425, [untitled]

long clock-hands of shadow ***** reach across the sea and into the barred forest

night spreads over a deep wet sponge ***** under rare stamps of stars

the sea is gouged out of ebony for us ***** foaming like a horse’s flank

steaming blood disfigures the sand dunes ***** the killer escapes for good

we never say a word to this day ***** beyond the usual hagiographic claptrap

yet another drone sent by a saintly leader ***** about to be replaced by a lunatic