I could speak,
should I ever tire of singing -
should I exhaust my bellowing-blue mewings,
my mizen-squall song, the roaring buffet
of my polyphonic tumble.
I could reduce myself,
plod words into tales of salt and sand and stone,
anatomise the spectrum-smear I am,
run eyeless lead to ingot, haze, and bubble evening
out of midnight as words break the listless surface.
I could chart my August skyswain,
count iris-chips and ice flecks,
with still lagoons as green as harts tongue,
range horse-grey flot to Lear’s hair foam.
I could vomit up the suns I’ve swallowed daily
spit out stars stuck in my teeth:
all heavens turn to my horizon – forever empties
into me at each day’s end; for I command
the turn of earth and tug the moon into a dance.
I could unprise the swollen ribs of boats
and men, both drowned – give up the secrets
of their last banalities,
return their sodden voices to the air.
I could unclaw the names of children
from the fists of women who did not go first
and blunt their fresh adventuring.
I gasp the lungfuls of the nations,
folded in each ogeeing turn; fizz wasted breath
beneath each wave; discard the stuff of speech as froth
and jetsom words for singing.
I offer my reproach in script that’s swirled as spray,
as sea-teeth sunk into your cliffs.
My swelling ranks advance, undead.
I will chalk your bones and wail,
draw all dryness to my depths
and still the turn of days
before I stoop to speak.