At the World’s End

It’s a matter of time, really, watching ships
sail in, riggings tangled in webs of fog
here at the world’s end.
Wind tickles our flowing hair, bellies
beat in rhythm, song of emptiness
and lust.  Waves crash over hidden rocks. 
All night we have smelled their blood,
a thousand tiny oceans surging through many
worlds.  Our eyes bore holes in those sturdy hulls. 
We are mouths and teeth and tongues, we sing
the sea awake.  We are the song of desire, flesh
of sailors moaning in the beauty of our feast.

Steve Klepetar

If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.