Statocyst underfoot and we, returning:

The news, descriptive. Rhetoric, void. It’s finally here: inarticulate

brachiopods have no matching teeth and sockets

and their valves are held together only by muscles —

wherefore the ball to fit the change?

unto what did she say, “change is a hard thing”

— woman thumbs for four pennies — currency is that which hinges —

chain to door swung open

— the hammocking tree just some yards downhill

bears that crux of certain lightning —

stilled, any young boy climbs under —

black root tangle — struck essence

rising through each dendrite of tree

charred spindle bone of dog buried the summer

before, a cave where the trunk cracked wide

tree now near-preacher, arms wide-flung,

ligature in a voiding smolder

and so, ay-ay! hold it — just

— we’re gonna talk clams for a sec

and you’ll listen, ear,

chamber that cannot refuse —

here, quickly: Branchiopoda is not to be confused with brachiopod;

not to be pulled into the question of articulacy. Not a hand

in gesticulating fit. Skin articulates denouement —

articulates more French than ever — articulates joint’s claim, that bone.

Boy, tree, you’ve got some nerve.

And we’re back:

inarticulate brachiopods/untoothed hinges/muscles more complex, sure, so

articulate brachiopods/toothed hinges/simple opening/closing muscle—

Lock down and ready, this is barbecue. Speak a word and tooth

that hinge, malign those swinging doors. I’m throwing all the clams in —

making each swaddle explain its wrap —

in the distance the great tree too dendrite to handle

itself splits in two. To solve this matter of teeth, I try thinking

ribs run the breadth of the body, always away from themselves.

Source: Poetry (December 2014)