P. S . T h e B u r n i n g o f P a s t S p a c i o u s n e s s
No one breathed. Air ran out
like school kids from double doors.
Bouts of invisible carnage. The body of water was
a crescent wave keeping scholarship, beckoning
snails to get off their land mass, hurry
like tanks, liberty’s mollusk. Behind me, you
and entire Polynesian islands
sank forming the simplest anniversary.
Year postscripted year, celebrations
are retribution for having circled the reefs, gone no further.
Grime and music, our new desires
trapped in their own extinct animals. We’ve come to give
every birth and bug debilitating Science
for a knife and bucket to empty.
Person postscripted person. Followed directions
before castrating the rooms inside. Huts
hovered like warts out in the open. Smoke grew
tin wings, slender ridicule.
When the ball of angel grief was thrown
onto thatch, voices crawled on all fours
towards thunder escaping bottled clouds. We pulled
in the nets. Evolution, cultural sloughability,
those who are easy to put out of remembering. A miser
with steep staircases and origami joints. Two storks in an attic.
Views from necessity numbered, heat escapes.
Across my chest the book is split open. Our eyes,
faraway campfires tied in knots by the wood’s strict ropes,
embers out to sea, a line thrown
to the past, white sails
above us gagged.