A chorus of thenar muscles press down,
Leaving fresh hollows as their equals;
Folding forms In the black grit, those
Plying muddy Interlopers.
Of fifteen years at least-
Mnemonic strands stirIn the hands,
And pull the tendons back to teach.
And an industry of oxidation heaves a hot breath
That punctures with a thud of air,
As brilliant white mounds hound the peripheral
Spectacle of formation.
Bringing the cloth to each brow,
Like powdery round whales,
A cool slick of black water – thick,
Gravitational,and then flattened drown.
Drying up,pore by pore,
Skins unsealed as vessels before;
Immortal,held in stasis,
Between a muddle and a maw.