EIGHT CUPS SPILLING

EIGHT CUPS SPILLING
John Swain

From forest
of frogs
and cicadas
insisting
a sentience,
I laid down
on a tall
disc of stone
like a boat
left to travel
the wind of stars.
Cosmos moving
in heat lightning
over the cruel illusion
of stillness.
I saw eight cups
of river spilling
in a circle
of glimpses
before the silence
birthed a god
to be torn
like a woman
in the jaws
of the false.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.