lyrebirdI'm awake in the scissors
of ten thousand lines, the ascension
of soldiers. The lamplight
here is cruel sometimes; limbs
squiggle in the haze, the letters
rearrange themselves, anagram
constructing a refrain, silvery
and unlimited. Do you
mimic or lie? The flax
threshing allows us to deny
the frayed hems, the genuflecting
tides strewn with radioactive
plastics that elide the difference
between safety and disaster.
A mouth of salt makes ink elastic
and all our papers brine.