The trick is the flow. Little fish with storms on their
Stones don't reveal
what they covet today, but I know them.
I gather scraps and throw them back,
throw them back to the waves
even as they climb toward my room.
So where to go when my pockets are
Night-shy, evening shells--
all eyelids and ears.
The glinting blades and their kindred---do they ever say,
no one ever, clean start, and
clean, stark, smoothed galleries within galleries
emptied of desire, but geled with color and domes of sea-
Look at the lapses in between stars,
vertebrae washed up at my feet.