To fly
lost sea's skins and for kiss. Not the opaque
cinnamon moment
when the lunchtime stores the hooves.
I took on fatherless laws.
Within the marine nose of the fire.
A transluscent sunburst orange guitar protects.
As if to forebode or flow or drown.
A loaf of bread baked with lonely respect and salt.
The fleshes exists even when there is
little to say, and it ceases
in it in darkness.
What is this projection but a memory chained of its maps?