The Whirlpool

You stare from the wire that cuts sky from brine.
Effeminate desert, you thought it benign;
But inside—I collect corals & spines.

Currents twist as flesh curls to a fist.
Feel the form of my force:
In the core of the vortex, concussion
Is pure—the pressure of poetry
Waves into lines—

Breaks. On the bottom: funnelled
To finish,
Lies your mind.

 

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland

This poem appeared previously on Monsters and Critics and Cosmoetica under the pseudonym Anthony Zanetti.