The door is locked; I’ve said a curse to keep it shut.
My brother’s safe; my brother’s body will stop breaking.
I really didn’t plan to find each foot in front of every other.
I really didn’t plan to find my father’s ropy arms at such a special cant.
The blade goes dull because I’m always talking.
My teeth fall out; I find myself asleep again.
The walls have changed: they make themselves of stone instead of plaster.
Become a faun, become a thing that changes shape.
I didn’t really think about the time I’d spend away from being human.
I didn’t really think about the chance of living somewhere past my teens.
I don’t need food, now, because I’m always talking.
I don’t need air or warmth, because the car can drive itself.
I don’t need water: my cells are bricks in cubby holes.
I don’t need memory: my tongue reads like a book.
Track 2: The Water Kept Coming
Your nose was a smear of blue upon the page:
such whiskers, such clean water pours out.
The earth grows grass like bodies grow a song, or a letter or a word.
The earth grows grass like money grows a family tree.
I had a dream love, where fingers were the way to be.
Your shirt was made of wool; your gloves were made of cotton.
The island drank us up—the island became something new.
The island drank us up.
Track 3: It’s Funny
It’s funny how the charcoal makes the water clean,
soaking up the little bits of evil from the thing.
It’s starting to make daylight:
the pinprick in my head and spine are faintly glowing.
It’s starting to make sense now: the helices of Percoset and bits of mind.
I came out here with you because we both agree,
to wallow in the char and kelp is really to be free.
I’m happy that you’re trying—
I’m happy that you brought the food that we will eat here.
The setup on the rock, the pathos flitting in the weave,
our seven-dollar tablecloth, it’s periodic breathing:
I had never thought to come here;
I always hated outings till there were plans to go.
You brace your elbows in the sand
and I control my distant hands with puppeting skill.
It’s funny how your glassy eyes reflecting off the silver sky
could see anything worth making them work.
The plumb and vicious slip of skin, the cool abrasive lock:
my chin is tucked behind your shoulder.
I am breathing up the ground.
You are pretending not to notice that curt, halting, grunting sound.
I fake kissing you.
I fake noises someone else has maybe made.
I think hardly of when your father died.
The feeling of our cleaning up is something like a dream.
I float over the basket and start filling up the thing with honey and water,
with shit from the seagulls stowed away.
I claw and I drop things; I kick some blue animal, a stray.
I snap bits of wicker; I’d love to be glad we came.