Ice becomes its glaze,

injected just under the surface to spread and fill every

hairline fracture.

Yet deep inside the clay is ragged, gripping on to every last piece

of soul that passes through it,

the desire for its insides to reflect its outer

hopelessly flawed from the outset.


A tide of turning

The ink spills onto the page and becomes a river.

Tributaries branch out across several notepads,

soaking through outlines and spider diagrams,

manuscript versions one, two, three, four

final. Final Final. Final Final point one…

The river becomes so large it leaks into the ocean,

where a single bound volume


floats to the top, raising its head

like a whale, defined on page 1894.