What Closes

Too many things solicit us.

We walk by the sea�"

But it’s not really the sea�"

It’s our hair that made it

To the drain,

Tied up in seaweed and wind and elastic, 

Along with

The little photographs the lice took 

Of their beds�"

No, it’s not me; it’s your breakfast

That’s making you 

Feel sick.

Consider this:

The forest, 

Also, not a forest, 

Only possibly

Something that needs to be 

Unzipped.

There is a rumble and you hear it.

The dotted lines are everywhere,

It is only ever 

A matter of precision�"

How to divide

Wanting and reflection

Into two obedient hemispheres.

How to entertain the cloud of words

Come to contain, to hide, to deceive,

To make use, uselessness.

And you hear it,

Back to the sea, or, not the sea, 

A window that leads to swamps,

This December morning, a chilly one, 

A sea that looks like a lake

From behind, as you leave it,

This place,

Below which I float,

Like an old frog’s song and dance, 

For instance.