Sublimating expression, that, in its own right, is the very face of god. The bare face of almost there, washing over my cool ruin. Positively the revolution. Gestures of the obscene. A flock torn down among the algae. If I could efface my grist, my accumulation carved into bones, if I could hand myself over to my total evisceration, what would remain? Agents of history pull the lighthouse away from the sea and foment an ineffable word spoken in the waves that tumbles through my limbs like ice. It’s November, my vice screwed tight. Measured anguish, measured fright, that in my passion is a politics of external blight. I am not prepared for this future. Plastic covers the shore. My body dissolves gracefully into the sea like a stout head. A washed-up jellyfish, a sacrament lost in wisdom, the seafoam frothing. 

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                          I stand at the shore 

                                      dig deep 

                                                    for land.       My skull fills 

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                                      with water ideas bestowed 

                           therein. I’m warm now, 

                                        fading always 

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                                                     before the swell. 

                                        Always spread 

                                                                  in sun. 

                           Salt taking my 

                                        shape 

                                                     making of me 

                                        a shore. 

                                                                 The inhuman. 

                                                                 The truly living. 

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And you, here. Salvation was never shorn, never granted.

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