Against the line usually seen
as the horizon is a woman.
Enthralled by the sun, the hot
celestial body, she deserted
a dust covered plain and her people.
In robes she walked, when the moon was bright
as fire, towards the elaborate ocean. She passed,
suspended in desire, from anonymous rooms,
through the megaliths of modern man;
what history had etched beauty in her eyes,
what religion had formed childhood
so carefully in her body.
I was fishing that night, throwing time
after time my line through the waves,
when I saw her step from the sea wall
into the sand, I saw her procession
to the foamy saltwater, I saw the first
of ten sacraments in the wine-dark
sea, before she consummated devotion
in the burning swell of the dawn.
No longer with interest do I see Wisdom
define the horizon, no longer am I
enthralled with his strength as his fingers
pry chaste Night from her rooms.