The trick is the flow. Little fish with storms on their
Stones don't reveal

what they covet today, but I know them.

I gather scraps and throw them back,
throw them back to the waves
even as they climb toward my room.

So where to go when my pockets are

Night-shy, evening shells--
all eyelids and ears.

The glinting blades and their kindred---do they ever say,
no one ever, clean start, and
clean, stark, smoothed galleries within galleries
I want
emptied of desire, but geled with color and domes of sea-

Look at the lapses in between stars,
vertebrae washed up at my feet.

by Molly Bendall

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