Littoral Zone 11


Boles, water circles, barnacle scars, the radiant circles clash in scales, a skin, a skin on what, involute dimension surging from labradorite sheen, wave shadow scarred with cracks, and the lit edge sputtering vapor.



“If a lion could speak, we would not understand him.” Another mind sees: texture, shape, light in patterns that for us have no recourse.



With plundered garrison and
miserable even
before the outbreak,
deferred, mournfully, straight
out of chatterings. Extravagant
in its largesse, so spending
all the light there among
feelings you might call
desirable, a merest reflex
between unpruned and raddled
accompaniment in
cloisters. The nightly
orison going outwards
beyond inattention and
a watering tooth.