The retreating streaks of swooshing mud
Have licked the light off the shore.
The forceps of time
Have given birth to turbid silence.
The sphincters of the lunar sphere
Have sucked the earth dry.
The shoals of fishy hopes
Have sunk, stuck in muck.
You shuffle words through the mushy mire
Of this swamp.
The future is foreclosed
On the foreshore.
Within the muffled, stiffening stillness of the dusk,
Through the mucous pus,
The vicious, viscous slush,
In the subliminal struggle of the flush
Against the mush,
A lush gush
The slime simmers
In a distant shimmer,
A frail shiver
Foreboding a new flood
That will surge and submerge
And merge silt and sea.
It sure will cleanse shell, shore and soul
For a whole half-night
Of frenzied, fleeting fluidity…