SEA SURFACE FULL OF CLOUDS
The chainsaws moved like clouds, crossing
our sight. They turned over the sky; the sea
shimmered with darkness. Words sliced
into the hold, water poured out. The SOS
stuck in the gulls’ wings.
Film too is a surface,
line and light, blood burned into it. Death
swam amidst the skies’ greens, greens
beyond the mind’s summer. Of ocean, of
sound, of the flapping reel and jiggered
light.
And frail chainsaws. In memory,
toothy and coughing. The Texas road,
whispering gray and low sun. Stranger
along the shoulder. The petals stuck to
his smile; small bits cruel to us, as we
studied the blood wiped across the sky,
blooms down barbed Texas.
The auctioneer
clears his throat. His high buzz centers
my sight; chainsaws speak over the gulf,
born in sound and blue malice.
****