upon this linen chest,
grey man standing
on the near shore laughing,
there is not a sound.
the waters take the craft
deep and silken.
as serpent of which he’d spoken,
dives underground
there is not a sound.
i return to the place before conception.
i straddle the landscape.
spear chaos and eat her.
she is a fish.
and emptiness pours
in like night sea
as pregnant,
i lay on this beach.