from an emergency I reach thread
at the edge of an ocean, scream
in the depths of our house,
shouting in a stone basement:
to the faceless body above,
hiding its motives in a suit of pasta armor.

In mirrors olive branch after olive
land gently on his strong skull,
tongue wielding the air into caskets,
newspapered wings of arm
under a flame scorched jungle gym.

from a remedy I reach into death
ungloved, counting on fingertipknives
the lips among the ribs of silence,
touch the firm breast and the hard breast,
searching for matter.

shouting from a cut foundation airless
to a clay parlor, letting eyeglass
tremble down mortal wet flesh
to rest upon the freeze-dried
torch of genitalia, drained rivers
webbing guts of hungry
from a great distance, the hang-gliderers
suicide, for each worn rock
there is a fresh glob of dough
like a slug, sucking and growing.