Slip of sheer white, soundless–
a design of strength
cracking open sky,
an open space for wind
visible on fog,
roiling in the sails.
I take up the cross and follow
the sound of whales–a league of seasons–
dry my shells on the sand.
There is this cataclysm of universe
on universe, this crater in the known,
this blitzkrieg of earth, wind, fire,
all turned retrograde in the fourth,
the dogma, the credo, the alpha and omega–
this coming from that,
the egg that planted the lightning
that planted the seed of me
from the corpulence of soul
the same man twice,
once to make him blind,
twice to make him see.
Trouble is just another pathway in.
© Andrea Mathews, 2014