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en el abrazo de tu cuerpo vasto,
me agarran las piernas las medusas,
las cintas largas eléctricas
que caen de esas figuras abstrusas
son los adornos de las ingenuas
de la mar: las bailarinas ilusas.
agua mala? no—las picaduras son solas agujas
en la tela de una gran trusa
que me envuelve y me hace
tan profunda como la mar, tan profundamente seclusa.
las cintas me arrastran para que nade en tu cuerpo siempre.
amigas eternas, marea mentirosa. me engatusas.
alta mar Feb 10
like the tide, i will not hush
when your gravity
brings me to tow;

if my facets in movement
blinker too brightly
then like the tide

i feebly reflect
but your own
blinding albedo.
alta mar Jan 31
Bell-hollow throat of
pomegranate aril sweetness. Toothsome
syrupy streaks ribboning down
pharynx and larynx, red-
burnished trachea and battered
lungs. Jugular pulse-point
metronome, Mendelssohn on windpipe
*****: andante maestoso moans
burbling 4/4 pharyngeal trills.
Writhing duet on the marital
dissection table. Composition on
the anatomy of love.
alta mar Jan 29
bajo la luna nueva
el antílope
se tiñe de tinta
celeste,
un bosquejo
carbónico
de oscuridad

entre colmillos
sabe al bosque
la cuartilla
alta mar Jan 27
Stoked back-throat cinders
supply sizzling slicks of foam—
spasmodic,
near-dry retroperistalsis.
Mother's gift! Cortisol for breakfast.
Then comes the rest of the routine:
remove the clothes,
wash the body; skin cinnamon
red with blistering
steam; redress; lecture;
down a long
hot drink of
chamomile tea.
alta mar Jan 25
You and I in the garden,
library of bookfoam on
lattice shelves, Dewey Decimal
inflorescence, logic trees on panicles,
delicate pedicel theorems.
You, juvenile, virtue hidden
in fleshy sepals, tantalizingly
callow calyx, milkweed-
suckling, chub-cheeked
and pointlessly adorable.
You, morbidity long floresced
in budding blunder,
baby feet feeling out
fledgling leylines to the mortuary—
which disorder killed your mother?
No matter.
You, lonely dividend,
left first to lawman daddy
and lost, finally, to me.
All this time for thinking, decaying,
the two of us consumptive, cadaverous,
phosphorus-starved and stunted,
fungally necrotic and
****** beyond repair.

The garden path
of your mind is lined in blue,
lovely vinca, probably
because you're a sad sack.
(Don't deny it—I'd be, too,
if my mother died like that.)
My side grows fireweed, fire sticks,
scarlet bee balm, yucca,
San Diego sunflower,
Compact Fire Red.
Ash for fertilizer.
I had a sister, not a mother,
and she burned to death,
and every morning I am burning
to death with her.
Here a bulb pops over your head
and blossoms, quite forcefully, into an idea:
bluebell, dog's tooth-violet,
agapanthus toddler trumpets overshadowing
reticulated iris.
Pagan calculus
knows no seasons.
The choice hangs, green,
curious,
seeking root.

Atrophy or
immolation?
alta mar Jan 17
digital bedroom,
juvenile secrets whispered
'neath LCD sheets
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