Eye down doe
The last time I saw weaves burst into a glacier becomes your sea
where I have worked on broken wood during chamber
burrrt if its something more like a fealty: to a mirror: because you are dead
then, in the burst film of progeny fused with glowing feet
there are no books made of steam, I choose which animal
has a limb made of light.
I have such a strange feeling that we’re going to
create new ways, of taking our question
and labouring; and chime of skin
since all the space we learn
is made for the dance
that makes hemispheres bow, where eyes are surely to do the same.