by David Hunter Sutherland


Images of Venus, writhing in her sea, sunlit specimens
while the fisherman baits a picture whose artist lies
nascent in dreams.
(Because there is a lake, a breeze, a setting sun...)

And, so it is for Mars -- whose disillusioned self sits
fetid in his waste,
red hands -- white sands,
fissure trapped islands of eyes...
in a large sense searching,
(should even this escape him),
there is a world, his star, our universe superimposing
this ratio superior of
brutal half-truths turned law,
icons seething in his net as
your quantum gesture flips
baited on its back,
sun-baked to submission,
answering death.
(should even this elude you),
There is an ocean, and a bigger fish to catch.


Poem copyright © 1995 David Hunter Sutherland <0003468441@mcimail.com>


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