Salt Life
I am a slut for the abyssing brine
whose vastness never quite reaches
infinity. My only image of god:
a portrait of Ben that I stare at
until the edges start to curl.
Why, then, must the rolling earth remain?
Ode on Not Dying in My Sleep
the wind lashes,
summons the blinds with its recoil.
I am ratified by solitude,
it buries me in its arms,
carries the smell of pencil shavings
and garlic. old copper.
let's trade organs.
I'll take your heart,
you can have my kidney.
I am the son of my father.
the tribe of cruel cannibals
for whom rejection
is genuflection.
déjà vu; the present doing
an impression of the past;
an inversion of echoes;
resonance as viewed through
bed posts; a forest of legs
under a row of tables.
what an honor to once again
have my shadow displayed on the cave wall.
