by Nick Thran
To be drawn to a certain quality of abstraction.
The shape-shifting stains
on a monster’s teeth,
the miasmic wash
of a monster’s breath. To consider
monsters who emerged
at the crest of the wave
or in the valley that followed the wave
or at the crest of the wave
after that. The clock
next to the log
has sunk. The log
has sunk. The sun on deck is less
a summer’s morn’
and more like a diagnosis.
Had we chased them far enough from shore?
Were good ones lost?
Is to love this smeared image
a morbid love?
Why cast two eyes
on a sunrise like this?
Because otherwise only
a monster does.
a monster does.
