Evening sky vast, endless, generous. If only
sheepish human measure could compare
with cloud strokes floating so euphoric there;
full stop holding their breath
in the abyss
of pastel blue. Verily
I say unto you. Unable to express.
What is this festive dusk, the Preacher saith.
To show you, ALMA (crown of darkness
aureole & balm)
where hunger swirls beneath your palm)
my disintegrated soul, one
turbulent ink-blind universe
Henry Gould | Island Road 27
Contents | Mudlark No. 6