dead myrrh
first mention of belgium in the sea table
first amalgam of snow.
where the whittler sat, witlings;
air folded up, sewn around the edges,
and packed away.
first mention of elbow, resting on the knee.
windbag squeezed dry, three black droplets.
three symphonies, as tired as mullets.
first mention of statuary, a hand with a door,
down into green valleys, green valleys of belgische.
first mention of spider, where loam races free from cock,
first mention of bitter plug where writing goes in
now sitting at the table, hands spread wide doing nothing
eyes looking forward to nothing, skin, cool, morphless,
nearly gone.
first mention of the window, where the wind splashes in
from the frame, where the children stand bleary,
awakened by flames.
first mention of ocean where the sea table stands,
where the statue lingers with its empty hands.
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