Armada
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is it possible
that not a single soul
saw me cross the fjord
a broad day skinborne
without broadcast?
an obstruction of sight
behind some tree or
coalescence of ‘em
likened to a pear stab,
penetrated silver soup
my fleshy leaves falling to
the dualist worlds of waters
shoes slung around his neck
that first cold foothold with the acorns attacking her breast -
worn over-solemn writer of a pendant,
un-rended - he accepted it in silence, quick as a single step -
next the third, only felt against the pining world
to free itself of standing still; she was for a moment, only heard;
rushed herself down and spoke a poem faster than the speed of any word
while it shook him, legs tied up in a stance,
it was no less that single leftward glance left,
to slip him
and it’s right to dryness all starboard
and it spoke;
“look ahead,” it said,
“carry him”
(a) left hand unclenched it’s perch,
stipulating stable as it’s
windows lurched -
“in!” she screamed
and i could feel her will
staunch against it,
holding everything
baring sets of teeth
that i had never even seen
i commanded myself to get over her
no one heard it
but the deep
