commit. Perpetrators on perennial train tracks:
the metallic rivets keep out the cold and the iron
rattles across the plane -you are so far we are.
I'd bathe you tonight; like the sea horse swimming
downstream looking for a place to open a garage
sale -a lawn, a driveway, some stones designating
a space. All is for sale, including my children he
says. They're only eggs at the moment. Give them
time. No doubt the perpetrating seahorse bathing
metaphor has shriveled to nothingness and nonsense,
and it's impossible to make conversation. I'm hell
bent, so scream hard when I stroke the split ends of
your hair. Pray the water runs down your shoulders
because they're where the elevator stops for some,
not you, as in North. The compass connotes your
direction: arrows dipped in murkiness, mixture of
molasses with intelligence, draining like dregs, con-
tained like the sands in all the deserts, no not desserts,
but the places where mules go to bury their bones,
salvage their remaining body fat for birds. Birds, she
says, save their wings for their mothers' bellies. Nothing
gets so bad. The vultures know. Their patient, the
perfect patient, the perfect patent. I think I'll design a
flowerbed in the shape of a hand. But what about the rings?
Not in images, not in words, not in thoughts, but in things,
breaking, pattering like the palm at the edge of a light-
house cliff. Fall in, drown, stir the waves with flailing arms.
(No More Sound)
