In the beginning it was all those deep-water leviathans grinning amongst each other in some
clubhouse pasted in incomprehensible pornography
calling out from the soft bottom belly of the oceans and painting their faces even though they
couldn’t see a thing.
We’d shine flashlights down there and find fossils in funny poses, making hand signals we
thought we could recognize.
All those bottomless mornings that wash up in the conversation.
All that entropy and change in size over pre-history.
You think we all want to sink and we do
back down from the current.
We want to shed our skin and the light that shines on it.
Like accidentally the whole world rested on soft long arms
that hold me ‘til I wake up and never.
That’s fine.
You fold the whole world over and over.
Re-emboweled. Spring-loaded.
Still the water collects in un-tragic patterns.
Notice, long after dishes
all that herring oil shining in your palm
how it shines just a little
Cover Art: Melancholia, by Nicola Brayan
