The horizon opens like a tulip,
a bouquet for the eyes, and the belly
of the moon sagging there, glistening
light on the water-street that motions
into the headlands. Crossing the sand,
it beckons birds, limbs, moss, all the grotesque
and fevered minds, the lonely and wounded,
the forbidden beasts of this world’s boundaries.
At dawn, the flowers spring up and look,
eyes of children wake, trawlers move out,
and we forget night’s offering of roses,
gifts of mother-of-pearl, as the early
shadows grow huge on the purple waters.
The Horizon after Lorea
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