You, my crest, my perch, my dreadnought holiday,
you the sustained threat of burgeoning love,
or heat, or calamity written blue,
you the courtship of time and specie,
coin of the guilty, the scuttling
of crucial symbols and laws by the hundreds.

Archangel class, thread your specimens through the fog,
dust the curios with tender salt.

Remember we are meat. Remember we are feathers
in the mouth, cast from black islands,
for when the day comes, when the tide comes,

a bronzed weight will guide you, drowned,
to the Land of the Dead, and there
I would let you rename me,
break me up and refit me, and there
I would wait for you,

at the south of the world, while you looked down from the bridge,
forgetting what’s carved in your palm.

In the avenues, the days are swift
and have many translations.
We are not used to such thorny math
as assaults our company, rich with

the seedpods and dirt of our expanse.
We each are tethered by a red aroma
To one another invisibly.

We cross the bridge leading in, always in,
To where rust is intransitive, a kind of forward weather.

What sort of scientist lives in these walls?
He speaks through his stained shirt,
Knows a rotting fruit, its slink, increase, decay.

Only we are slow, so slow.

(Shifting, nightly, plain.)

And the trees? The tall trees?

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