She Must Accept Some Swirling Ink

May 2010

Before the caustic brute she cowers.
It shudders with stone and towers.
She's plain; Her simple orbs observe
horizons as flat, and fervor
as unbecoming. She is fear,
a place to hide as it grows near.

she cowers Yet, for the beast roils
with flame and frozen spilled dreams' spoils
with mares of night, and ocean night.
It's stronger in its chaos - flight
not possibile. Before and since
it lies, both dawn and dusk a fence.

Her eyes must drink it to survive,
she must stop stalling, and arrive.
She must accept some swirling ink
into her milk, and sigh, and drink.