A train whistle dabs its bristle
into the backside of the night,
then smears a streak of blue
down the spine of the glistening moment.

Sliding across sand
colored skin, separating
the oily sea outside us
from turgid waters within,

like that firmament of old
created by Jehovah to keep waters above
from waters below,
we fail�

rain drips down your jejune mounds,
I am an island, ephemeral
as the whale
whose brief breaching

exalts mammal flesh
and then returns
to the old ways.



� 2004 by Terry Lucas