Aboil, Jane

Your morning comes
as a burnt rag
thrown over the sea foam
that smells, frankly,
of sperm
and tomorrow
and to matter and tomorrow
stand balanced stones
on the spit of ocean’s edge,
where you’re the wedge,
host of barrowed wave-scroll,
hackled bone and hunger cough
of gull. Know everything
on its fast little rat’s feet
left in the wet sand’s
existential etch-a-sketch
just before all rats scream,
fly angrily into each other’s
hopeless filthy bosoms,
in the loudest direction.


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