i.m. Jhonn Balance
They are draining the submerged cathedral,
and the hotel once propped on a glacier
by a sanguine and visionary developer
has settled in perfidious gravel.
Emily is throwing knives to the receding waves,
still amorous and eagle-eyed, lapped by the sea’s
high boots. She is coursed by meagre tragedies:
an anagram circle of scribbled animal graves,
your plummet into astral azure. A fillet of cloud
flares to vermilion in the kindling light,
before the cycle of monstrous excavators resume
a droning cantillation. Under ocean night
the protean feeders on nebulae consume
their writhing quarry in a luminous shroud.