Insatiable
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Insatiable, your death creates a hole
That sucks, a vacuum, a vortex made
Of solar wind without a sun. No coal
Was ever black as this. No curving blade
Could carve out greater harm. A storm of foam
Would seize the truth because its waves would surge
With hollow bubbles each one like a dome,
No, sphere of godlessness, containing urge
To banish, no, annihilate the point
Of holiness. The Titan, Chronos, licks
At blood of sons, chomps bodies, joint by joint.
A later God nails wrists to crucifix.
The moon and priest imply some hope beneath
A bridge but are replaced by gulp and teeth.
~ Phillip Whidden