Of Parting Day
A farting spray: the ocean’s flies,
unbuttoned or untoothed, advance
their shame against the ebb, the iv-
ory and orts of meat sans feels.
I sigh, and stalk in high dismay
my tower of dead elephants
and look out on your tower of live
kilometres of wave away.
Diverse alarms and doves all set,
I ring the bell whose neck is wrung,
whose mouth is soft with Nelly dung.
Kilometres of waving jet.
We’re born to build. We die to spill.
The curfew tolling love, zip, nil.