lacunae and interstices (redux)

debilitating as 1-2-3… awful as awful can be, and slightly elevated but apocryphal

after the apocalypse we walked on the littered shore of lacuna beach

no word from paramaribo pam, but a fine bread crumb trail of… well, bread crumbs

trailed off into the wreckage of a civilization unhinged and unleavened

she was germinating a fear of wheat, though one couldn’t really call her glutenous… yet

she once said: a night in suriname is equal to two weeks in french guiana

i understood nothing, but the smell of decaying sargassum was intoxicating

she was spotted at the fringe of the jungle at the interstice between life and death

made dyspeptic by the cold medications she attempted to o.d. on

but the bardo was not “taking” and her ass was festooned with deer ticks

What I’m Reading:

Black walnuts hitting a barn roof
Fairly rapped the morning.
          Massachusetts,
Autumn. Orioles and pumpkins.
And the crack of those round shells
Like a hardwood mallet hammering a wedge
Into the moment, splitting it ever open

— Seamus Heaney / “Black Walnuts”