On The Death Of The Waters

From the wreck of the ark
to the fading day of our star,
the light races, the light drags,
the moon rises, the moon sags
over the rolling waves
and your hands on the balcony.
As a spine pricks the world
and the shudder, deep, is unheard,
but you feel it, oh my god.
As the spindle flies apart
turn your bow to the biggest wave,
but your angel’s on holiday
and that wave rises slowly
and breaks.