Water hour, the rubble barge
carries us toward evening.
Like it, we’re in no hurry, a dead
Why stands at the stern.
Lightened. The lung’s medusa
blows itself into a bell, a brown
soul-nodule attains
the bright-breathed No.
carries us toward evening.
Like it, we’re in no hurry, a dead
Why stands at the stern.
Lightened. The lung’s medusa
blows itself into a bell, a brown
soul-nodule attains
the bright-breathed No.
