The Third Road

Erect no markers
on the Island of the Dead.
Ferry no man there
who has not loved
nor sailed nor
both sung and cursed God.
The high crosses
and brass bells
are a distraction
to their next work
which you can only
shore. Plant their
bodies above the
waterline with
their heads facing
west on the road
only they may travel.
Do not make camp
there but sail
before sunset. You
don't want to hear
the wolves carving
their bone songs
from the moon.
One bite of that
oblivion and
the apple island
drowns all you
know of heaven
and hell and
God and man.
Listen, even at
this hour in your
far suburb of
modernity: the rough
spring breeze which
snarled the night with
storm betrays a
a thin cold baying.
That song strafes
the darkness with
teeth as pale and
old as the moon.
First light will surely
wash this clean
at the feet of
our Lord of Days.
But for now, a last
few lines to lick
that skulled shore
which bears no
mortality in its
wild blue roar.