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Evening sky     vast, endless, generous. If only
sheepish human measure could compare
with cloud strokes floating so euphoric there;
full stop     holding their breath
in the abyss
of pastel blue. Verily
I say unto you. Unable to express.
What is this festive dusk,     the Preacher saith.

To show you,     ALMA     (crown of darkness
aureole &     balm)

(black hole
where hunger swirls     beneath your palm)

my     disintegrated     soul, one
turbulent     ink-blind     universe

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Henry Gould | Island Road 27
Contents | Mudlark No. 6