I broke this spectrum
with my teeth
Or else It
broke
in my hands My
sense of touch
Gone
The black lake
is a lathe—
more oil now than drink,
her churning solvent
hews the fish
to blocks, no fin.
each of these lives
some baroque station
of the cross, a slow
unenviable grip
on water’s edge
All I’ve ever known of desire is possession. When he asks me
to name my enemy, it’s always after
someone I used to love. What’s the difference?
You’ll be sleeping gently and I’ll know you
by your lurid exterior,
is I know the humboldt squid,
the abandoned arcade.
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