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Cormorant
Plucked from the surface of carbon waters.
A hide of mineral oils & mars—
Head last from the surface black & in its
scissors-like skull, a pair of lapis stones.
Bale hooked face from out inlet to sea,
like old sailors do… like old bastards do—
a glint still shimmering, but of ire & might—
to keep & fish & fish until the sun does die.
O’ & it does die,
fading down deep below the coastline.
But, no shag turns away for lack of light,
knowing well the darkly blue-lit ocean floor,
seedier than any surface night.
Humming
Did the grasses learn to climb, or mosses crawl?
Either way, the Olympics are green.
Did soil come to sink, or hills taught to fly?
Either way, Storm King reigns.
& did the Sol Duc's waters crush path,
or Earth open as to welcome its floods?
Either way, it sings as I hum—
catterwaul to its choir angelics.
Jawline
The sage did call it's pink softness as the sun,
caught up in conversation with the
bursting morning spirits, stretched for goodness,
heating the sands & shell to every beetle—
who yap with all the mites about where
one finds good shade.
Noon billows, gold comes to be cobalt &
as the heat barters with the air &
air barters with the heat,
the basalt jawlines chatter with the winds,
as to plan for tonight's gradient mass,
a gathering of handsome blues and reds.
The sun comes up;
the spirits do churn & thus,
gilding the desert owls journey home.
Sleep
Aloneness: the shutter just before rest.
& while our window lies open,
for the world to bleed in,
the opal waters of sleep will
grant us all our black wishes.