Omaha. Day one. The Day-6 June
My heart drags down my khaki sleeves
as I kneel on the pink sands
of Omaha Beach
below nine thousand still stars
crying out from folded clouds.
I hear hoarse whispering
on soft sealed lips
reflecting side sand-papered shells.
Scrape the surface.
Pink-blue blood filters
through grains of sand,
blood, seeking long lost prints.
The crying skies here never change,
only blue heavens turn to vivid grey,
and the sun, a desperate clock
like a broken heart
in a fractured loom.
And the moon is an indelible lead
taking notes...and making notes.
The red soiled beams from above
focus on sands below
and tears from the stars
silver the blood patches left behind.
I kneel down here again
and feather gremlins of long lasting cries
through the palms of my hot hands.
And under my heaving fingers
the complaining granules escape to heaven.
The sentinel sands left here behind
are secret sweepings below a godly rug
that feels broken skin
and dried up tears.
Turn back the sea,
turn back the tides,
fold hanging clouds
into manuscripts of dew.
I clutch my throat.
Oh! My Heart,
Oh! My heart.