Brine

One last call, if only he could remember God’s number.

Noah’s the next best thing with that zoo of a yacht,

fractals of timber: gingersnaps under elephant toes.

Feathered things, last hope.

Olive meat shudders against the porcelain plate,

rice-paper skin of his teeth. What’s left?

Always the same: frayed marrow of pit unlike

the start of a tree or any kind of peace.

His lover’s black bandeau bikini top, a strip

of licorice bow-tied over a stomach rounded,

the forehead of a saint. Olive between her lips

colored what one might expect from an 80’s queen.

Rope instead of branches corkscrew up from his neck,

Pit in his pocket, what the earth leaves behind.

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