THIS PICTURE
it is not what it seems
nothing is
what ot seems
an armada
sailing East
sailing across a
sea of mist, across
Homer’s wine-dark
smooth as
glass
could not
be unruffled
and in
its secret stockpile
many a
noose of light
for the Sultan’s turret
ships
big as cities
whose meaning be war
war
their entire industry
gliding to
their assigned
positions, making headway
nothing being
wrong with this picture
everything wrong
we can
no longer see
everything, everyone,
insisting it is all
a bad dream
the night, so dark
mother of
storms
about to
break
the story
so thin we are
about to see through it
far too late
to do anything
poems 2 die for 