(a work in progress – currently untitled)




don’t know that my ribs are a cemetery, that

sea shells rest here and sound like death when you listen.

i tried to tell you that the ocean comes to die here

that there’s no infinity no we’re so deep the pressure

could fold our bodies – look



you can see its heart through its skin 

isn’t that something?



there’s the sound of your cigarette burning, a faint

crumpling of paper at a grave and you’re saying 

i loved you once – and i thought there’s some beauty

in that before the tide came in and turned my bones

to sewing pins – some beauty. 






used your oars as a shovel without realizing that

was shameful. that, “digging up the dead” is not thinking

we’re destined to sink here, tangled. I tried to

speak through soil to tell you yes that touch

is electric – your hands belong to living and



oh – there’s the sound of an anchor scraping.

there’s some beauty in that –  some beauty.


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