A Hanging Bowl | John Swain

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Sea, the crescent moon
a hanging bowl,
a hanging crown,
for the lily and cold stones
she touched
opposite my burnt hand.

Bright Venus, sea brilliance,
born from nothing,
born from the hanging dark.

Silver helmet, sea burial
with dark eagles over
the wind in my grave. 
Sea comes, sea being
the night’s blood, island
at my side, withdrawn
to her beauty, to her sign.
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