with thanks to Caspar David Friedrich

Monk by the sea
you're small
a finger of coal
against ten thousand
reversals of sky
sky sky. You're
summoning, maybe,
Blake's Pieta
or crisp paella,
all the king's
horses, round
red-orange women.

Monk by the sea
your daughters
are calling those
sailors bad names.
We come into
the world. We
regret the sky.
Words settle
on us, a torn
saddle of light.


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