Collagen & Purge

in which Elder ask many questions

What is the atmosphere we call
our bodies but glass & aspic. We prime
to shatter & meld. We speak memory, whistle
our psalm through a fear pipe. What use
is awe to the eyeless. What use is fever
to the doctor. A symbol only works
if a populace knows what it means. A mystery
only works if desire is uncapped & offered.
What is a wish but a loathsome want, graven
into dead things. What is this light & its cracks,
its phosphorus hum. This lacuna in a catalogue of sounds.
What use lips without a language. We steady our eyes
on the words that hang on walls, weave
through a called-down cloud. Syllables form
on fists & stay there. Look,

they say, look now.

The Lost Coast

in which fathoms are crossed

We skim the Deathless Sea. Our skiff of feral glass blotting out what is underneath, pith & breath &
something coming. In the middle of our boat, I built a nest. Vandal ferments in its crater, tied to the
mast.

Last night, a lock appeared on his cheek, inked in salted animal. I spend the day running my hands
through the water until I feel the key needling my fingers. The blood compass calls down clouds & I
unlock a new landscape.

Trees swell along a coastline, painting drenched wood, a pictogram depicting what happens when
the world is flayed & jarred. I try to call out to them, foam up an unfamiliar word in the glass at my
feet. Our boat leaves us, deposits us at the base of carved stairs leading up to the cliffs. & the Lost
Coast.

The waves we make are our own.