There was a system: this red body was scooped out.
A woman’s hands opened
as that strange tatter of light
dropped like a feather. There was the sewing shut.
Multiply the solo by a thousand lockers:
maybe anger still whorls in the depths of halls,
and shame, but there was so much glow and chatter,
laughter, plankton. Years flutter past.
I understand there are, in some restaurants,
chefs who will prepare a dish—sushi,
bright soufflés—just the way you ask.
I’ve not met one.
But mark how all the particles keep
moving in their unseen corridors,
mark a journey built from spines, not this map,
though the people are always leaving, coming home.
Any glass may hold the sea. The sun
seems to rise, solidify a bit, and off the flat rooftop,
stars I could barely see vanish and will not.