low-tide (in two movements)

mudflats, maze-like,

straining mercury

through channels wide as giant’s capillaries.

 

as water into wine,

the steady salt and brine

transmutes to ichor, draining out to sea.

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in the beginning

was the word.

 

a mute note:

void; unheard.

 

it ascended the throat

(that choked-up aisle)

 

to the mouth, baptised

in a pulpit of spit and enamel.

 

syllables strained at the pews of the teeth,–

congregating in phrases and aching to speak.

 

the tongue is an altar.

it alters my sermon-song.

 

my words dissolve

before i have begun