NAVEL GAZING AT THE ATLANTIC BONFIRES OF A FROZEN GHOST

steamboat eyes dwelling in nettles and smudge yellow suns, sipping on reindeer fumes
o’er misbegotten tundra of driftlands, in a bunch of gnarled decades with daedalus arms-
akimbo in the portable void,
but suitable for treatment
if you sat in a star
without a muzzle.

preening in the wrinkle of our love-
is the belief in It.
then the losing proceeds, as we expire-
only to return; more smitten than-
a real kiss

on nowhere lips-

you read.