By | 1 November 2019

There’s dust and black plastic instead of beach,
the curled tongues of lizards washed up

bubbles of air—the ticking shoreline.
Some beads like scattered rosaries.

There are diminutive shadows
shaped as organs lying next to stars.

Here, a heart there a lung slung next
to an empty can of beer. A peach

who had cause to forget? It lies among
the grit of sand, a broken ear.

Sand is the unit of time
roiling under the broiling waves.

A girl skipping stoops to where she found it,
smaller, more translucent than she was expecting

the politician, fingering
his pocket

looked so care free.
There was so much

of the world, here
on the edge.


A dug out pit—two dusty dogs
wuffing wooden air, noses holding scent
padding across curling dirt, snuffing the mouth
of the pit. Noise. Words, more: a stick—they split
past advancing feet moving the blood trail close.
The flesh goes
in and later, as the heat rises
—come the bones.


The island is fire
arcing volcanic rock:

How was it was loosed—this coruscant. One care
less strike? Or, more—the low-fi buzz of heat like blood.

It winds its way on the back of noon;
a snake flechettes open ground to trees.

Tongues of ash are floating on ribbons
of light flicking the tide.

They fall curled: displacing topography,
meridian, lines of latitude.

Palm fronds ess. The razed air hits cracked opal,
salt water forks searching boundaries of sky.

We left deformities and mutations.
For a time, there were no eyes to see.

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