Drycicles

Her eye-lashes were black anemones, heavy dark

Persephone watching at the gates

A spark shot through the glass, then another

As my consciousness faded or

Rather

Dissipated in sleep.

My hair was made of black anemones, carnivorous

Medusae, turning thought into stone, sky and air

Sun that shone.

It’s not fair, a megalomaniac picture of yet one more

Discharge of chemicals; at the shore,

A flock of walruses screamed their agonal

Mating

Cries.