She does not swim the sea
anymore. She is here in my hand
drawing oceans to build
fences for in the sand

with bones, they provide 
no detention for the waves
or flesh that once covered 
them.  It is not what she saves

that become trophies, things
are merely the point flies
and vultures circle, no longer
willing to walk or rise

through the mountain snow
to a sky that is borderless.
She sits with her golden comb
counting the divisions unless

they reveal her under the reflection
of midnight that crawls through
the moonlight and across the open
spaces that are deeper blue

and thick as clouds.  Her rock
is large, pointed, and lets her
beacon like a lighthouse,
turning the night into a blur

that draws you back to the craggs.
She was left warm, stained
with blood, anticipation of the last
night and how long it rained:

the oceans struggle is different;
questioning, alternating, willing
to grant any wish.  She sings 
the fog to cough and go spilling

over the ships that move in a fit
of passion, riding currents that are
as swift below as above, unafraid
of losing her self when she’s come this far,

like the sun that embraces midnight;
sure it will return in the pain
of building a world to conquer
that is almost immune to flame.

Some Other Kind Of Index