Ash-Aura back of
your shock-knotted
hands at the three-corners.
Black Sea old times: here,
one drop,
on
the drowned oar blade,
deep
in the fossilized oath,
surf murmurs.
(up the precipitous
breath rope, in those days,
higher than high,
between two knots of pain—while
the brilliant
Tartar moon rose up to us,
I sunk and I sunk into you.)
Ash
aura back of
you three-corners
hands.
Come from the east, the way in front of you
a crap-shoot, terrifying.
No one
bears witness for
the witness.
