this country, an oyster: Ridged cup

closed, it pumps pallid circulation,

resists the serrated knife of consumption.


Where is the grace to gentle our children

who ache to catch wild cobalt in untethered


arms? Whose elevated longings we hear

on a pitch that intensifies with the strength

of the season, the insistent changing of tides?


Pried open, this country quivers in a curry

of tears. An altering liquor to filter. A rampant,


permanent burn.