In the fog the outline

in the island

in the earth

wherein my kin


dwell well with holes

fox and gaping:


Present mortars ringing window

shards and red salt

pocked brick working the emptied



Siege the day.


Sometimes the cards are warning,

the crows not what they seem, and naturally

the ravens, the brass eagles

young enough to be golden.


From feels like this

this molting

this body stone slipping

silk string from string and


but for the water

pulling from these shores.


Line bolt after body after beam on the beach

and count the dead.


In the records, in the time that comes

of flooding, turn

the body garment, hung

and carried to light

in the haustellum of the eclipse.


Dust collects, catches

to wet sand through small fingers

slipping. Cut

from the boat.


Child, my ark, would you believe me:


The point is how I love?