Monday, August 19, 2013


over the evening paint 
of the first bulb's segmentation, 
a late husk, evermorning pigment 
separating from the plane of skin 
and not facing a barricade when it 
skims inways toward the lakebed.
it takes a second for my tactile feed 
to become audible, asking why 
has the yolk in you stayed whole 
all this time that clicks against it, 
threatening it, making me from below 
a lousy mouth hanging open in wait.