Often I [ ] floods [ ]
[ ] a kind of [ ] minnows
and [ ]
[ ] me to [ ]
[ ] as I to him [ ]
[ ] not at home sat
[ ] the deep sea killed
through skill-work [ ] bent on the brim of the sea.
The thing is [ ]
[ ] is going, giant, swilling
skin not made of flesh, feet [ ]
shall mark us all [ ].
Once he was alone and worked alone,
read alone, and cooked and ate alone
a red supper, a red celebration,
for when you are cut loose, drifting
as he was, not even trailing strings
behind, it’s necessary, sometimes
to tie down to something central,
embodied, hot. A steak, skillet-
seared, bloody. A bunch of beets
roasted, green tops torn off.
A bottle of wine, garnet-dark.
That was all.
Except to say
he ate in a cave by a pit of dragon-
scale coals. The stone hole glowed.
The coals spat sparks in their ash bed.
The shadows sung softly, susurrant.
They might have been dancing
but were not, only made a sound
which entered him like dance
until he dug in the coals with a branch
then tossed the branch on their backs.
If wispily it smoked through its leaves
who, then, flamed?
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