He lies in stern on some praised grass
His head tucked, bowls prude to the Moon
With a chest that ravages an open wound;
A tiger of suburbia, an Edwardian countess
He digs his fingers in the soil, brown will stain the face
Of reared coasts— his nails are shores defiled by ecstasy.
The rump is masted by a flag of insolence
And he thinks ahead, bound by his mother’s fear;
Where he will lay on some praised grass
With his head tucked, entangled to the Moon
Searching for a cause he’ll never see.
His eyes shape him, nebulas swoon him
And if he were a boy he’d glug the salt,
Though his legs are rib-bones and red to fault
In a waters eye; he seems to drown;
Turning to the air in his head, he cries
‘Not only are they a truss of conviction
But they dance in weary contradiction!
Ah, I have spreed too much, to many natures
Have shown me where the source of beauty lies
And with that creation, bides;
The source is the mouth where each tide cries!’
© Copyright 2019 Manx. All rights reserved.
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