—then sweeping with a gust/     shriven splotches
     of wilted poppies—murder/of color

     bright plot     to sea-sicken/my flush planks—botch
matte i've worn/desk to bed—crude-hued mother.

—i had to     glint/wingtip—slash rain/a tern
     scissoring a nosebleed—quick/fish skim wind

     outbreak of earwigs/ebbing toward the berm
—slam     /and hide     clam hands inside good oven.

     blisters     /witness     my pardon/i'm unfit
for penning coups—see     black/white—unsea blue

—lye/     scour tongue—rich     glare of bruises/surfeit
of what done     gave you bloom plum/lake and true

     right the slashes/i wrote     by rote i write—
no—but heaps     of blood-fists thump     yes/my blight.

—Lauren de Paepe