I have lost my teeth, they were in
a box padded with my tongue.
I’m coming up for air along the
seams of the north Atlantic.
The water is heavy enough to mask
my silence, to hide the cordage
of my hands.  Already barnacled,
already scavenged. The broadside
of an axe slips, it is not blunt
enough to save itself. Swinging
against currents.  Waiting to rest.
A bit never found in my mouth.
My name is percussive,
the air held hitting the air
waiting in you.  Who is wanting,
the wave or the rocks? Let’s let
the remains be soft.

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