GOD SAT IN THE SAND AND TOSSED UPWARDS–
CAYLIE HERRMANN
spilling constellations into the dark
like jacks. We pick up the stars
and name what’s left over. You see:
mother holding wailing
infant, dancing lady with
full skirts, child learning
death from a goldfish bowl. I see:
heart valves full of glass
animals, a mermaid
wrong-way-round, sphinx
tonguing a riddle. We settle on
a murder of crows picking
rye and you swirl a galaxy in
your wine glass. The ocean urges
its foam to our kneecaps and
something about this seems cinematic,
symptomatic of something left
behind, dry-bubbled on the sand
in low tide. A bonus reel, strip left
on the cutting room floor. I focus
on crows in their pack, tongue
between my teeth while they sparkle
and you radiate heat. I know
you’re imagining nebulae, they’re
reflecting in your cornea
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