6.

let the tide
pull back, I say.

(we sit
on blanketed
rock)

let the tide
roll forward
        bellow bull lungs

your belly
near the rock

in your belly
our sleeping

child
in a spiral

of bone
fist in mouth

fears no waves
no no gods with old men's
                knees

hears the distant sprawl
of language

cities of syntax/
dense wet prose

like newsprint
mutters to itself.













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