The wake tumble-up through sleeper’s thin lips,
spreading seafloor manacles crossed
over unseen chemicals run dark by sun’s leeching,
an ever-alterable tempest dream conceived.
Who fights foam, grained gravelbar biting,
repetitious yawn & close.
Look,
there the friction-speak of dawn grinds eventual,
dozing earth lifts one mortar-white tendon
over carbon glaze, angering the calm pulse
of ocean to a meaty, spinning boil,
of man’s deep illness eternal brought
shallow & quick.
The rage lasts the fall of night,
a precious sour waste left felt
only by crags & rock, the veil below,
in deeper conscious, unmoving.
About Jack Galbraith
Jack is tied to MATC first-timer Ali and thinks poetry is neat. If you’d like, find more at galbraithjack.com.
