A thought is forming
It bleeds a pagan syllable
one word of ancient blood
onto the page

At evening a blue haze pencils the horizon
Time closes over creation
broad burnished hands

The thought has grown
It is
a candle like morning
The wick is burning

When it is dark
When fog settles
And the thought is
A graven image to kneel at
Profuse soundless

Then it shall have children
They shall haul fishlike onto land

I am thinking of them