Sauce up some soups with no spices
some oils with no prices
rices on spoils
rise on spools of sallow schooners.
The mists of reapers wrought sky scythes
sliced roils with no trough dry
gouges in coils
gauging tolls on corsair warriors.
So poison, then?
A bake
in the kitchen,
aboard bowls of salt and lemon,
the storm raging on
above?
Crest of the water
wishing well to the bottom
no way out by a slaughter
or crash of the mortar
just the rain,
endless wailing–
Or survive, then? Seek
eye of the storm
port of shelter,
can rocking deck
and creaking mast
outlast
cleaving thunder?
***
check out my published book at this link
Jordyn Saelor 