DEUS MORTIS

by William M. Peaster

I scrape the Moon
across my chest, steadily
with mountains in my eyes
and moss on my breath,
and look down
to see soft beads of jacinth
streaming

my breast, upon
which a puddle of rust
pools

into a stream,
into a river,
into a flood,

a sea.

Note: You can find "Deus Mortis" and 150 similar poems in my recently published volume of poems, Phantastikon.