By Alejandro Hufana
The rocks still roots the water
Tauter than that the boy int he channel
That marks where men-of-war should enter
And avoid the shallows of the turtle
The lighthouse eye puts out. Today’s communion
Is in the pulpit of the machine
Now when all owes it religion
What adventure had the aborigine?
One make-up moment to be emperor
IN this haunted hamlet on the coast -Fishers foam-furrow the equator
TO homage at a trading post.
Now when divinity is frail
Between the radar poles and the wishing well.
To beat the mind to a bell
In bretheren’s bones with the sunken sail.
As if from rising bottom, sound of sand
Spills out cargo and conqueror
On seven sights of land
Far from either rock or bouy
Like a prayer’s amen, and ahoy!
The brief bed of he whirling whore,
The sunbath, the pinpointed star,
And the native full five-strings deep in his guitar
Sermons how to suffer.
Now back to feed the lamps their fuel
While the rock still roots the water
Tauter than that the bouy in the channel.