鲍鱼tv

VIRGINS
By RICHARD GEORGES

Between the lines of my notebook I inscribe
in bleeding black ink. My marks
cut the blue horizon like great sails bending,

spattering the vista with bleached splendor,
splitting the sky into uneven portions.
They point at the blooming clouds that hang

like the defiant ghosts of slaves.
The cartographer's pen could not chart
these depths more exactly.