Poetry / Poets

The Low Coast by John Swain

A blue future
spread like water
with its churches
of forgiveness,
the ocean’s guard
betrayed my face
to a just charge.
I looked down
from your mouth
following the torchlit globe around
its dark form
as choirs open
back to mornings
buried over us.
The light burned
through your child
as we read
his true phantom.
The painted sky
flaked like rain
we made into a book
to walk through
mazes of shapes
like a name
we hid within
the low coast.

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