What Is To Be Done

Your language hides your ruthlessness

in representation.

The bodies keep washing up on the shore, and no one is left

to toss them back to the sea. No lighthouse, no point on the horizon where sea becomes sky. Dark firmament bleeding in all directions

All practical means exhausted

I am turning to the sea

walking across it’s floor, across it wrecks, its delusions

to some undiscovered crevasse, I am dragging the bodies with me

you can see the plumes of murk rise up from the bottom, filthy blossoms

of eons worth of decay. I climb down and place the bodies, one after another

filling the spaces with a deeper absence. Finding a depth that the bombs can’t reach, finding a depth to sink into and sleep. To wait and rot away from the reach of memory.