Hail, Sekhmet

Feb 28 2021

The second met, disarmed, me at her fore,
too turned to meet the buzzer in the dark,
(“… I need a line, a sink, and twice an oar…”)
turned ruddy, tinder keen to turn a spark.
Saint Elmo, masts will bend, and masts will glow,
twin oceans, each without each other’s boat.
The deck is stacked above, and stacked below,
and stacked between the first and second coat.
I deal in altars; others butt in “ifs.”
‘Twere wont, I’d harvest sage, I did not grow.
No change, immute, these nettles in the pith
are rarefied to holy err’ and, “No.”
These crowns, these purple hares and golden tiffs,
are jiffy, riffing neon on our spliffs.

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