"Self-portrait as Your Voice Trying to Stop an Echo."
"Wherever tidal water foam salt water flowers
against stone darker, we echo our pledge to vanish,
led to a death.
Grown young, our tears learn of radiance outside gravity.
And we will say we are angels in the virgin's light--
fairy tales we repeated to each other.
As children, our bodies were such species wholly present
tense.
In the garden where yes it's the only island,
untenable surface swarmed in light, water striders,
and mauve strings of sea moss pattern grammar
in the thin wind's swill.
I tear water from our chest.
Swept in thorn, our lips stained with agarita,
I feed the chalice vine.
Suckering our nature before we were organs.
If this, the gray-green leaf, the gift led blind is deity,
our language is soaked in the blacks brine.
The black sings a music, nudity banners.
A field of scorched arms of what was once
acres of pine soothing suit.
Over flowering world, separated we are.
Why?
This field of wracked hunger where the lion's mane once
carried the calendars, no longer over life, but of life.
We burn the resin surviving the eye.
We build altars.
From breath's broken splinters, I count your breath.
Remember our skin as the silence making silence real.
A garden where yes is the only island."