ON THE SHORE

the moon, cold

pale disk in torn cloud-shrouds

between skeleton-fingers of bare trees

on a late winter night

sky a wasteland in

the brightness of its stolen /

gifted light; a mirror

for minds, sailing

above us here at the bottom

of the ocean of air we

fishes arisen from our primordial

home and dreaming of a greater sea

to leave behind, vast

emptiness to be the background

of our flying

beyond the bounds of mortal gravity

that bind us to

the fossil fate of our gilled matriarchs

and patriarchs of the salty womb

17.03.2019