Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Cape Reinga Semi-Redivivus

Sometimes you head home,
Sometimes into the unknown,
Usually both

At once and never at the same time.
Nothing so misleading as mighty
Simple instructions like these damned ones of mine.

Who practices sorcery anymore?
Who jumps off the point farthest north
Or west, whichever, to reach their fated shore?

Dolphins these days are just hugger-mugger
Rapists with fixed, fish-eating grins that chatter,
Fix their sponges on their noses and scatter

In front of those few ships still small enough
To stay, biomechanically, in front of.
None of them are elegant or tough

From ferrying the young in
One another's arms to Byzantium.
I am actually ancient, unlike him,

The poet, whichever one it was
I wrote prose for when I was
Still desperate to know what I was.

What is the dead point? The point
Itself is the point,
Because it, however silly, points

Out past shattered souls
To where the foaming shoals
Rake rhymes over cold, cold coals.

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