Poem From Behind Mask of a Small, Black
Blot
The orchard marks my gyral sense of
closure
the slow and aching fruit, the wind
blood eyed, extended, crawling away
from me
How should it feel to be gnawed out and
filthy
left in all that trash, legs crossed
over and bleached
white from the sun
What moment of stinging do you wish me
[decades from now]
to hold dear
You move away from the gulls, guiding
me toward the hellish blare of waves
[the white pulp of stars above]
See the rising up and teeth clash of
the waves
a devouring of yourself
again and again
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