Verge, Marge, Shore (Feb. 2, 2005)

In the 32 Triad of the "Mysteries of
the Bards" it is said that when the soul
inherits Gwnnfyd, that is, Happiness, three
supreme gifts -- once, long ago, its crown,
but long, long ago, lost (...) -- primitive
genius, primitive love, and primitive memory.

Fiona Macleod, "A Triad"

Wash your plashing curves over me here,
oh my blue empyreia, salt of my swoon's
incessant plunge: tail every siren's sweet
wave-breaking tune with the harder
caesuras of abyss, black as the churl
who came from the West bearing a
heavy horned cudgel of pure South.
Verge in my margins shores of white bliss.
Pour in my ears the roars and ebbed
hiss which rises to fall into your dark Yes.
Walk with me here where the triad completes
its charm of three heavens -- old dreams,
first kisses, the infinite book at the rear
of all seas where one tidal music
drowns all the reams. I'll be your pilot,
your lover man, your poet despite
that those worlds are now far under
and near lost, subsumed by the
greater brute thunder of waves
pounding for miles and aeons the loneliest
of shores where I daily wake and walk,
the no-longer-quite-solid-or-solitary
penman, author and augurer, blue
salt's inland metaphor and integer,
its dreamiest denizen. Leave the lapis
at the last line I weave, a hue of
lazuli bluer than this world has seen,
yet. Let the horses ride wild on
the steppes of far waves, their
courses and thunder hooved hard
from your heart, or mine, our ours, I dunno,
the sources of song are so vast and
so lost and ripe for the plucking,
for fucking and flipping like
flat stones cross still waters,
plucking the surface then diving full down
through every egress to kiss your breast
and sleep, perhaps forever.