words are clumsy cotton balls

growing meeting throat’s walls

heaved up reluctantly dry


silence. marry me to nights alone

seal it with blank arms kissed by the icebox.

later, peel away my rind with a thousand trembling fingertips

breaking into geode crystal depths, unseen and

quaking to the pulse of ineffability.

so late it’s nearly early, we become

a nest twigged together to hold the exhaustingly fresh visions

we exhale, and a great horrible ringing halts the night

at a wavelength too long to wait for.

sound projected carried on lumbering backside of

the sea’s crustiest





this world, our dream-words, submerged

sifted swallowed shat, and lifted out

dripping holy water, a silken crackling glaze sleeping on

its empty longing surface

ready to be filled with anything

but words.



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