Sonnet for J. Blackthorn

Vacant stretch of shore, pale parabolic blue

Exaggerates the line between sea, land. Now-

Ripples of foam, waves of verdigris hue

Depend upon the sun to stroke your brow.

Its point in the sky; it must be noon.

Gathering smooth grey disks, arm on my waist

Raised hands, wrists snap, we send stones to their doom.

Icarus, Icarus, the sun can’t be chased.

Seagulls hovering like boomerangs above

Waters as ancient as Rome, as Kemet

Afflicted by time’s forward march, our love

Vendettas with the sun, who dares to set

Easy ocean, rolling over its naves,

Skipping stones over the verdigris waves.