The poem about Minoa
wasn’t about Minoa only.
Another word.
A mystery word.
Not mother of Minoa,
medicines of Minoa
or
magic of Minoa.
No.
Although
any of these
seem valid,
perfectly fine.
Yes.
I’ll stash them someplace.
For the event, in the event, of requiring
a possible, future
mystery word.
Crumpled fading newsprint
As yesterday’s armies march
Into tomorrow
A future we predicted
We accepted sleep standing upright
Sleep never understood;
A chapter of blank pages: my darling, your wrist hanging
Over the bed
Your blood a confusion
Your heartbeat the black window
Swallowing my hands
Fingers forming a circle
Bottom of a fleet casting shadows across the seabed
I toss my hat overboard
from my book Hierarchy of Loss (2007) Ekstasis Editions
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