a hunk of driftwood
washed up on dogbeach
in the shape of the palisades
how many deepsea divers
hauled up and soggy
from hightide with disks
warmed from the backs of rays
if we close our eyes
we see angels there
the shadow of mother
from the black lagoon
sunday nights when we lay awake
taught ourselves to read together
the english thick as hardened soap
on our tongues
our drunk appetite for dialogue