Meniscus Poem by Michael Galvin

When the tide goes out,
the dance retreats from the broken hall
to the deadlands and dry pillars
in the caverns of the sea.

When the tide goes out,
the sea flower
cramps on a grieving echo
summoning repellent justice to rake
the dry scales,

rake the dry scales,

where the same evasion of the only
buds a Hydra full of teeth and a crown of saws.

When the tide goes out,
the unborn child of this unknown hour
chills in the current aired by multitudes of gestures
worn and carried to their own perishing,
the given dream a concept
twisted out of hands numbed by TV, stocks and prayer,
not knowing yet
what has been neglected.

And let time then distract us from
the delivering hour,
to die by time through shocks the body
senses drop like talons from the sun,
though the sea still plunge into earth's unopened grave,
binding grafts of love into the other's torment
to remember their completion.

One day - that same day
you saw the morning -

where the shadow of a seabird in the air
sharpens terror pulsing through the manic cloud,
another purpose also breaks
despite their shadow-driven school,
and unveils creatures light sustains.

Pray then, flame to flame,

this listening meniscus awakens in the sensing dune.
Here, in remembering salt
the spring whispers liberation from the shadow and the snare,
raising the dancers in the plume that followed their shroud
down the halls to the remains of the sea,
and lived.