Answer from Her Question

“is that where all of the want-
in what is to be canistered?”
A question a few days before
unsiding herself from the specimen,

and now she has stepped
in circulatory. The certain ware
of centuries against flack stones
and passing of blood and gowns.

Defeat, an old story to the stars.
Glints in blue totter of the shore.
What’s held in secret in the dark
undressed as a shadow born

out of the wave, “A portrait
collapses in the choking fog,
but another in the life of the air.
What sinks, flies, or the blind

algae hovers, not definitively,
not unlike plummets and sunlight,
warped resides and brought to wade
bobbing in shallows somewhere

within the brink of an eye's limit.
Yesterday's sailor and a lopsided
globe, too slippery to place atop
merchant rocks from the harbor.

The bilateral horizons along lines
industrial, both cause and effect,
now hundreds of years later. Swarmed
water, grey from sittings of exhaust

mixed with fossil acid. Dry-cleaned
with business beside some body shops.
The aspic coporal claims downward
to itself- my calcite of a half shell."

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