“they have hung the sky with arrows”

you can shake your fist at any
foaming coast but her
break remains unscathed,
her scorn in
waves,
her calm in
tides,
wet snarls pacified in
moon-swept stages,
depending on the time of month,
the climate or the
stage.

you are barefoot:
some pedestrian gesture of
worship.
altar.
avoiding the shells and
ghost crabs that litter the beach
at gloaming.
you’re roaming again.
seeking to slice wrists with guilt
and urgency
and pretension
steal the scissors from his girlfriend’s
pocket.
                   what’s it like to be a hypnotist?
take a seat.
notice your veins rock,
glisten,
with munition.

life’s a seething blade
and you wear yours deep in your lungs.
the ways you have learned to assuage
are more permanent in placement
if you face it and then you
say it.
you watched your hands become tributes
to decay so you ask your feet
to become your fingers
now,
nothing from your mouth
going forward.

watch your toes curl in the sand
before you start wading.
you are practicing the dying art of
self-restraint.
you are seeking a quiet rest
inside yourself.
you are seeking the sudden wreck
that laid you.

1.

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