From the Fishouse

The ladder in his throat:
Rung-less, greased. His voice—
Now unformed whimper—

Festers in his ears. He wanders
In a fog that stinks with wound-
Wort and wonders how long

His body will last when he lies
Down in the peat. Will he
Decay once for each of them

Or become bones in days—
Organs proving empty
But for the voices’ carrion

Inside his lungs? His lips
Splinter. His chest clatters.
His heart is not his own.