It never gets dark here in Premonition;
no one has it out or coughs paranormal
air or confuses evaporation
with exaggeration. My lips move up
the sea as you play dice around the light of flies
while urchins eat the shapes of flowers.
I hear small noises issuing from the mythic.
You impose a vortex, spill the material
into our eyes where lights,
in cardinal numbers (while stars come up after)
might be the bright moon or a beetle
tricking ants it’s one of them.
Will you be reason? Will you begin with?
There is no model for our trouble,
the coral wracked by one wave or another.
I take up with the sea. & snails in my hands
on your skin is what happens
when the massage quickly turns to murder.