The liminal reaches its end in a fog sarcophagus. A coughing
a coughing frog it was funny until
he fell dark and drunk on a fog bank leaving a frog bar
the lighthouse on the rocks illuminated
hitch, rail, and scratchpost.
Dark and drunk, the snow was a march of ants
on a black field
roaring on the television screen. The field was afoot
in the process of happening and fed the swallow worms.
The chemical happenstance of developed film
in a dark room
shed an untoward light
upon a dark subject. Who was
the subject of a documentary on fruit flies?
Who killed frog? Who contaminates
an already viral crime scene?
…for he who multiplies by two shall be a remainder.
and only he who believes in nothing shall bear witness
and only he who whitewalls the fence shall find commerce
and only he who reveals an arc will be found
a wife from the desert and people like the stars.
I learn from watching; it can be unlearned
the worms were in us, but not a part. Our cat skins stalk
and stalk the rails, the haul, the ark. The owl coasts the great shoals
and shallows and pecks
and pecks at the membrane of wind and driftwood
covered with aphids decays into pulp.
The swallow, dark and drunk,
gorgeous as a talking horse
gorged and gorged in feathered violence
due unto the other
the other, unspoken of, goliath.