for daylight opens in form

drawn out of accolades

half mast in grief

summoning the forever of a mountain.

crag, diatomaceous in rustic force

pushing away from the eloquence

of sea level, my heart balanced.

when i find that grappling,

once again i sit empty.

trust carved out of my meat again

i become a brisket

ready to be served.

every 8-10 months, robins pluck my worms

and feast, plump.

i explained but there is no reason

in the platter at the banquet table.

frosting and grapes overflowing,

dining like hounds.

nothing. remains.

so i grow limbs and clatter

into the lane, until i lay flat

resetting on the marble foyer

of the cove house - damp, the unlit side.

staring at the crown moulding.

adding detail.

listening to the waves.

again. crash.

so they could say. alright. say.

and the white of my eyes dries into shards

to cut the exo tic husks

again. strawberry tarts for tea will fix it.

ⴲ.