The Tide, Part III

And crossing love’s gulf into the
abyss a protector angel strove to see
the faint chaos from the air, that is,
from death’s other side, and instead
cursed us with his harpist’s strange
melody—a mix of escalating cubist
hooting with a chitin instrument like
a horn, though blown with exhalations
of a psychical kind, and the beatings
of an immeasurably large kettle drum
interspersed with the sound of
scraping—some colossal metal thing
being pulled from another.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

—Gabriel Muoio

$1.00