AUSPEX
Brian Kubarycz
Fish-maker, I am sick. Melt-off only deepens
the rough oared ocean. Stars blister its surfy
skin only when the wealth of foam bursts
no more. Order southwest whatever engines
fret and force open its snake-veined breakers.
War machines, their lateens solicit storms, as
wild dactyls curse fate, burst themselves,
uncontested, on the spattered page. Answer
me though from the incipit. Utter forth your horde
of auks. Word-spot this solitary waste where
herons fear or dare to take wing, expand, egress.
Your letter conducts us if we fear it. Last rites
resounding in high-ceilinged rooms wash about
arches and piles. The very book of death
has no horn but doth rise up, vermiform, eyeless.