reams, bent, peeling

much to be said of hurricanes and the nest of the eggs of your misery, lifted, feathered, arranged on the beach like messages under flight paths yet untraced by airplanes never built

much to be said of how if the ribs don't splinter, they rot; of pits and mounds; of the most visible structure being your obscurity, your caution & your cloaks — and the beacons scalpels excising, the beacons misdirection

unfamiliar stars at night confuse your calendars

and so so much said to be forgotten, too far too quiet from the seismographs in the heart of her, the court stenographer — in the sun, the stirring a prize worse than the vapors escaping — though in the half light . . .

no, too much, too much: your quilt of palms against the rain & the ink you owe, your belt of fibers spun into your still-grown hair . . . and then your eyes, your eyes no more eyes than the mimic's on bright wings & blind back, your face a false countenance of mating & intimidation

too many unfamiliar stars that you choke on, grit in your tea, grain of your overexposure

and long unaccounted for the remains, the remaining, the wind & the weathered aggregate, the tide & horizon, the bedded ash & the cataract stones dropping from your shoulders, arranged on the beach indistinguishable from the long-drawn reaccumulation which would be anyway, the unthought & unknowable affect of your south pacific