His foam white arms After Pierre Fouché Lydia Trethewey
speak this story with the bite of a pin holding the pattern together.
a mess hall rough like bone of a cuttlefish and soft like lace.
tell me, without words with your fingers in cotton intricacies and loose hunger, pick the syllables from between the teeth of a frill shark.
he escapes as a limpet, clings to the littoral rush of tide and wind, hope
a sailor is seduced by the language of salt left on the lips afterwards, and brine-washed throats
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unspools his longing in the small scales of a braided rhythm, white crests kelp-brown hull-green and blue, blue, blue.
