A long silk
is pulled quickly
over my upturned palms
in pitch darkness. In

the horror of not being in a hurry, kneeling before a 
framed numeral or tide rip or a thought of bridges, con-
fession ends. Jokes cover it like a rash, a

marlin gasping.
Music broke the
surface of my youth.
Maimed ship or maimed

voyage? When I was younger, I did not need my eyes. The 
world, audible in every corner, in each filter, gasped 
and, glistening with seawater, made always its pavane.

By order of questions,
the toolmaking eye grows
lame. The exigency of
the gaze grows lame,