Christ the Mariner

The marina lies heavy with keels; Lines sway with an impression of breeze; The lifting air—and the matte sail claps Convex, concave to receive the shadow Of clouds as dim as utter night.

What comes down the shaft of midnight But Arcturus vying with the proximate sun?

Ancient star, you are pure as silvering Beam as your light shivers in the western Air.

Immediacy encumbers me like willows Before the sea, where the milfoil galaxies Shimmer across its surface as retortion For sin as I say, Resurrection, The world’s dying is the shiver of eternal spring.