From the Fishouse

The setting forth
The crumpled map
The grumble followed by sulk
The nerves, the nerves
The heat, the dust, the light
Sudden exhilaration
The unnameable lily

The unwrapping of tiny candies
The weirdness of having a body
The inexplicable sorrow
The pettiness of taxonomy

Ecstasy of paper and pen
Nothing at the core

The peevish phrase erased
The yeah, then maybe
The solace of pale green

Bath accompanied by snack
The sniffing of the wine
The button, the lace, the snap
The night inside the night

Racket of bluebirds
The no more days
The disheveled bed
Trepidation of skin
The salt and slide of it

In the hereafter, or maybe not
Are we waiting, are we rushing
The map uncrumpled

These purple figs
The horizon, its onrush
The heat, the dust, the light