Barometric Tide
    Mary Jane Sullivan
The sunrise is a plagiarist repeating yesterday. And then it reverses its path along the Thames, a lucid experiment. I am re-dreaming my time with you. The fathers are dead. The priest wants his concubine. The orbs of our divinity rake the underdermis. Delirium and ash scatter with the floatsam on the river, alone in its occupation. I search for the nipple. Replicate the mother tongue interred. To love you is to see a split frame. A laceration. Before there is one there are two at the birth canal. I need not reduce you to the sexual encounter. Love is a predicament. Adversarial on the surface. At noontime the sun castes no shadow. It is a mollusk. The blue hour of evening is the trickster. You smuggle the Pleiades into your eyes. The lattice does not fray. The cloudlight over the river mimics a city simulated. Fractal and complex. The golden Buddha at Battersea sits on his stupa between Horse Chesnuts and London Planes. We bow from the point of view of two.


In Posse: Potentially, might be ...