The Ocean's Anatomy

the lemon cries there within her mask,
her soul in the shriveled rind walks without shoes, somewhere
in the puckered mouth of the dozing master, the landscape
deserted, his
blue lips kissing
dead women about their
grave, empty-pail feet. spinning, spinning,
the lemon sings a sea around itself; she is the seamstress
conjuring, so it floats. Some still
even
call it yellow
in the tomb gray aura of her new home.
the mussels have finally been convinced to come up from their coffins.
the shells have cracked so slightly
just a fraction of their roars are heard. but it is enough.
ears also grow in the salt-ferns like rubber shells
almost by god action; and the cities rise from the drain,
colossal toes lift like castles, it is a creature made entirely of
words
scrubbing silt from its skin. it opens its mouth, swallowing whales
boulders, islands, houses, dawn…and down
goes the lemon, its seeds
telling stories like circles of fire to the bottom