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Michael McGuire
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Dying of Thirst in the Middle of the Ocean
In a place such as this,
In the run of the deep,
The sky is amiss,
And the warden of sleep,
The seven depths of the dream, Just slip thru the tides,
In a backdrop like steam,
A sea vulture glides.
A wonderland of depth; sometimes the bones of other divers faintly light the black emptiness of the brine,
Cup the essence of that impassable depth in your hand and you see right thru to the flesh; this is the mocking void; substance and sign.
All we know of the thirst,
Is the crack upon the lips,
The desire of the cursed,
The soul of sinking ships,
The rain it holds no drink,
Just cloud in sorrow drained,
You can't feel what you think,
All vision is strained.
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The hazard of that fixed stare into the petty bone of the deep is that all you see is the reflection of the surface scar,
Uncoupled of nature; a shadow with a halo; dressed in dark gods and symmetric equations that distort the focus of what you are.
And so we suffer blind,
With want amid this all,
The matter drift of the mind,
The precipice of the fall.
In a canvas of blues,
A man's shape undefined,
The only water he can use,
Has poisoned his wine.
Of necessity there is no bearing on this ocean of directionless surface and obscene depth; there is only the compass-faith of where you are.
When the rivers draw the water from the rain and the oceans milk the blood from the rivers; the heavens are left as dry as a star.
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