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John Lunstroth


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.

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