mascara bags

[human bon bon]

nothing left,
the banks are closed to the
tide tonight
the boats have drifted
out
with
the ice
the silent pause
is filled in the format
of the global call,
the cell phone, is a butter fly
present in the void
such soft wings to
kiss an ear, long ago the
meat left the bone
and the stew grew thick
mythologic foam
oceans grey, blue green
and bursting soup seaweed
cells to the corner ceiling
of the 3rd story walk up
room-
carry your breath with you
when the hopeless moan
casts over
like a razor cymbal-
there breath in
and be once, 13.