You look for faces in the neap tide.
Is my face not enough?
Can we be more than victims?
Hollow out the insides lovely.
Bring the charcoal splinters to my feet.
The tines are sharp and ready.
There is a button in my chest that fastens shut
the rib bones.
I can feel it snug and tight and nice.
You have left your mark with the sighing things.
It is not an easy answer.
I know this now.
The inky smudges fill my eye place.
This is what you’ve done.