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Description
Growing drops of emptiness
form a edifice inside me,
from the blackness before sleeping
that is tinged with iridescence so momentary
you are afraid you're dreaming it---
and then you are asleep.

Rather, you are dead.
You have died from that growling
that funnels itself into ossified tubes
and feels like hunger in your bones.

I walk like a vagrant on the reef.
Vengeful weather uplifts silt from the folds of shoals.
My fingers taste like salt
and look like the spines of
unnameable fish, numerous and silver,
gesticulating needles.

She died, I cried, but she is I
and you is me, and I am all three--
dead, dreaming, asleep,
spineless as a Bluebottle.

I have left and been transported to this place.

There is a world far away;
Instead of home there is sea.
The beach is bleak and the gulls
can only make the gray sounds of forgetting.

Instead of love there is a wanderer
whose voice is fragile as a ghost
who laughs like plates breaking
and draws the blood in the dark
for sharks to feast upon.

Empty places are not empty,
but only caves where the Night sleeps
and watches its descendents--
the Wanderer, Wonder
and Sea.