Once, this stable hosted
tens of thoroughbreds.
But this ranch has a history
of lost riders
and now, there is
nothing else to ride.
Set free by forgetfulness
rather than truth,
I am comfortable
with my beliefs of the unseen.
Under the night sky,
scars become spider veins—
like an atom
blurred for naked eyes.
There is migration
anytime the sun coils
into its cotton shell
or when the ground cracks,
because it thirsts for rain.
Stalactites hang
down the roof of a cave
where shadows
eclipsed the hieroglyphs.
Before the storm,
sharks fled their nurseries
for the abyssopelagic zone, where
the moon has always been an alien.
Light
— with a line from Kahf or the Cave
As the sea rises, it absorbs lights
from the sky in packets.
A spider tents a web bridge
across the well of oyster shells.
Inside the mirror are reflections
of cities on water.
The window glasses in this house
are old as toothed edges of cowries
on the sea floor. A fisherman returned
after a storm. In the past, disciples
of this blue water sat on the beach
with lungs filled with hot air,
& thirsty for their wounds to be healed.
Omi o ni ota, omi ni ìwòsàn ohun gbogbo.
Though we name what we can neither inherit
nor mourn, man has never been most of anything.
The eye was cave enough to be a museum
for beams of wandering blue lights,
until they vanished before it rained.
The storm blew octopuses to the beach.
If the water breaks through, walk
into the fog until you touch the water,
A smoke from a burnfire
dilates the cave’s entrances,
hungered with grief, a new moon
was sighted in a jar of salt water.
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