– unable to get from the underneath side of
that flank the sand, the body: blown
from every direction, into like a conch shell
where the echo of excess emotion enraptures
where once was a body willing to die inside of, longing to – this
is the obsession, this hour
of philosophy, this transatlantic voyage
spread on the page
like an oil spill, the blue-and-black
arsenal of water whispering, inevitably, as if
it were in a wind: was it worth it? Worth.
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