soaked

for Richard Tipping

Inhabiting this

art

we’re not seated

on a carved chair

regarding

through glass

the sharked

polluted

eternal

ocean —

We’re the flensing edge

of any of a hundred

newly risen

teeth

We’re the cornea

of a boy bodysurfing

beside an

outlet pipe

We’re a blackened plank

floating around soaked

A message

without a bottle