There Shall Be One Form of Action

The sea leads to the cork-board sky
of stars linoleum-like and exam-ready.
Collared necks sweat furiously, sweatered
ships twist and creak—the eighth horseman
projects herself abroad, devoid of subject,
matter, and jurisdiction.  No one knows
her civil breast, which arches nipple-free; bends
to the core beneath; stretches to heaven above.
Water flows one to each folk.  Red ink, red wine.
Everyone is the master of form.  His form.
The form we carve ourselves.