On hearing singing in Tintern Abbey, 07-09-14
Song, a séance of everything body,
cutting mind and soul from soft ligatures,
we sink our fleets in stone belted harbours
and swim in a hope of drowning slowly;
the occult of our marked anatomy
expanding to the ilk of nebulas,
a moon in a thaw of pregnant fetters,
new oceans aligning to gravity.
The river is a song of human skin;
a constant touch in a flux of itself
into the weightless need of swimming blood.
Cooled viscosity suddenly climbing
under thinner water to nowhere else.
A prayer answered
in the one place it could.