latin can not describe the electricity
of blue veins suspended in cala lily skin. they fan out,
protazoic, dormant beneath a sea of iced flesh.



i grip the sink, peroxide strands of kelp washing up
on the banks of my shoulders like
the white-gold sunshine

that would prism behind your chinook arch
with all the beauty of a nuclear winter.



for the transplant of my frontal lobe
to the heaven above his stratus comforter, instructions
have been written. next time he is carried in on a foen wind i am to

one, stand very still

two, present my brain to the sky

and three,
wait for the apricots
of sunrise to settle
into the overcast of his eyes.








i practise a little and wish i had a veinous hum, skeptical
that an electrocardiogram could detect a beat.