(in memoriam Dylan Thomas, 1914-1953)
Deep and deeper down
a sliding ton
sings baby antiphon
to the call-back scatter
of the spangled roof.
The ceiling rolls
between the sleeping
continents, patiently carries
the little burning boxes,
spills them off course
for the sake of detail,
to feed the ever-hungry voices,
come as coral,
gone as spray.
A small mountain
collides with air,
spouts lesser oceans
shot with speed,
its underbelly white
with jealousy, the
sky broken underneath,
fractured when the
humid wind shakes still.