Thanks to Sweetest in the Gale for this week's prompt, ocean. Please visit those who were inspired to weave words out of the mist at One single Impression.
“Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing never happened, it is still conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never.”
Franz Kafka
TerpsichoreI am
drunk on her song:
breasts
bob like gulls
silver bream
angle in conference
carmine lips
part before leaving
bird woman!
who can resist
your sibilant guile
in a blind sun,
in windless calm?
one day I grow weary
of asylum
stick my thumb out
in spoken mist
a rusty trawler
lists his load
“Can you play anything?”
he asks.
“I can whistle.”
We motor
through midnight
lightning
chasing dawn
I arrive altogether empty
of souvenirs
Crusted with pink salt.