by kvennarad


“the sea had pulled its punches” the

old guy with his seamonkeys and the

young woman with her pash pad, her

ghosthunting app, he appropriating

an old seebackroscope, both washed

ashore on different strands but each


heading for the same city, he by the

folkwain she by maglev, he the raven

she the dove, he the genuine article

she the simulacrum, he the closing

of walls she the opening up of vistas,

this was their supposed intercourse:


Thou seest the scar by my scapula, it
is the testament of warfare long past

I see, and thou seest not, yonder turret
wherefrom the pyromachians descend

Thou seest, and I see not, the foam of
their major syphons to the conflagration


all day she reads the labels on his clothes

while the bijouterie hung from the curtain

rail makes a tiny rainbow track opposite

to the sun across the magnolia walls by

which sign she knows the hours, such is

their clime, their refuge, their querencia


all day he paces, traces, the booklines of

his knowledge, rearranging five hundred

plastic continental soldiers, corresponding

Hannoverian men and Mohawks,

setting his eyes tabletophigh, xrayspecs,

unseeing of that spectrum creep;


This cicatrice thou seest was battlewon
child of bastard canister, grape, sword

I see, and thou seest not, ’tis battlebegot
and that struggle was thy everyday

Thou seest, and I see not, how close is
our clime to the end, sleep takes the field


jupiter© Marie Marshall, all but 85% of one line.