Sumus

Rage that starts the pen,
A Freudian ploy against
that sea – Meer if you prefer.
Against swirling mass, Ovid
would Chaos call.  An
army from a man,
formless as war.  Beauty
and a terracotta deluge
pose our simple question:
Who is on Terra Firma?
That icy lake so empty
and Earth with players’
crawls.  Our stage so
arid, our open door,
our sea-soaked Whore.

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