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.



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