the radio faint from the kitchen,
the parched pain of a life’s labor,
leaves of greatness spraying into darkness,
dangling limp in exhausted hands.
Waves of soft moon-dyed mist
break purple on the rail,
the bubbles crest,
exploding in canticles of silence.
Daub the salt-stained stigmata,
open the weeping pores,
exude the horrors of hate, deceit,
in a not-forgotten alien race.
Transcend the swimmer
of a summer’s night
who is drowned by the dawn
of registered time –
drink this froth of fog with me,
toast the dew of Ezra’s brow.