The Red Desert
There is a mind inside an island. By the brim
Of her shore, a boy culls from the sand; a ship,
Unmanned, scores the gulled coast
While cormorants repose on the glittering rose.
From the ocean, Poseidon is goading the shore.
Drops spray the boy’s back. He is shelled
To attack; his searching turns in; becomes
An internal thing. Friulian lyrics
Smooth crests from within. Who sings
Dialectic, in dialect unseen?
It is the island; it is everything.
Copyright © by Kevan Copeland
This poem appeared previously on Cosmoetica under the pseudonym Anthony Zanetti.