Polyphemus, Sable Island
Ignorance! Ignorance! Ignorance lit! Vitric
twist of sun! O
the plastic brain! I can see from my skin. Pain! Pain!
Pain. A ristra of dried suns!
At the rim no less
of a history-maze! Parterre far and gothic
high. Norman corbels. Big
blocked limestone. Walls
the led giraffe-head bobbing concentric.
The centre? Green shade
Nymph-black hole. White-milk derm. Coddled
in sylvan folds of seventh
seas feeds with the honey of high
birth these hot chrysanthemums, butters
and pinks neuralgic to touch. Flowers!
Flowers. Flowers! Pain! Nobody
did this to me! See my cave. Scree
my cave! Kill these rust-bit neck-
fixing braces: high-fructose corn syrup, TV and
twill always have been
a cave. Metaphor can nothing
exorcise. Take us for instance: we
feral French ponies centuries branched
off on this cirrus
wisp islet of Labroador: an accident
overgrown. Who did this?