In ancient times all people were of renown
From abandoned capitals built lower than the sea
To poor saints in their cells. It’s the ruins that prove
Wealth at the low tide of sin; waves spread in ash
At fickle dawn as if all holy land had disappeared
Beneath the ocean. This druidic sinking evolves
Between oral tradition and human error falling feet
First into love of old adages: the king asleep so
Easy upon his key; princess abyss measures grain
In silver goblets; even beggars repulsed by acts of
Strangulation to which Paris only ever exists
In comparison. Night dressed in red on the bronze
Walls of punishment. The cascading city—always
Already the sea’s descent—with handsome locks
To which the gate itself or perhaps inundation is
The only true key. This legend upon request
Written as victory of chapels over sacred groves:
Ravines of prayer and stables of sea dragons;
The poems of fishermen and mermaids’ influence.
For saints threats coaxed stars deep into the bay’s
Reflections,—bells still heard in the calm. . . This
The magic of the inexorable; the chance to swing
Violently to and fro surprised by the recovery of
Every moment that follows.

 

The bell in my ears is a new old song; makes me
Wonder if I can build a life upon vagrant spirits

Across all oceans. With folk awareness I take
To sky on the lost power of inheritance: swallows
For the marrow of church spires and doves in
The mutiny of light; waves afloat only for weight
Of mountains and the cavalry of beached whales
Come home to the hull of water’s edge. —Who
Wouldn’t claim origin from illuminated manuscript
The very phases of matter here contested—with
Only the bread of smoke to appreciate the depth
Of screws that resonate in place. Thus estranged
From ghosts but it needn’t be so; all tales but
Preludes to the ruined cathedrals of atmosphere
Built during the reign of dry land. It’s only fair
Assimilation itself should be subsumed for we’re
All petition’s children now;—capacity for critique
A sense of homelessness from which breath
Nevertheless drew heavily. Where in the hell
Of stars does the market lead us? Who the devil
Should have the keys to the ocean?

This poem has been rejected from a great many institutions over the last few years (or millennia), and I’ve always admired the resolute commitment of OF ZOOS to be unrecognisably different with each issue. It’s impressive, I hope to be part of the shape-shifting one day. Maybe the way in is via the dust bin.

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