This poem is a writing chair at 5 AM
with summer night pressed to the window,
luxe and lush and fresh-scented with rain.
Night is the river and the poem her crannog,
the song of the salmon coursing the worlds,
her eyes fey-lit with bioluminescence,
that glowing domain of water words
the verses weave in wombed refrain.

The poem shuts its eyes as the night bids
and widens undersense to dream, canoeing
down the river in a drum of crannog song,
chaired in ecstasy’s vatic virile thrum.
The music is water-born and bourned,
branching horns across the night forest
that canopies the poem’s pale cranium.

A crashing rhythm by matins wrought:
from river forges the poem tongs its fish
glowing with weirdlight harmonies,
silverine over ghostly sash, the ochre
of occasion rimmed with silt — soul ash.

Here is the poetry the darkling night rides
a transit, if you…