Site, IV

At the bottom of the ocean—

even there—

the bones are picked clean.

I suppose this must be common,

this relentless cleaning,

and the tiny sequin

tossed into the bin of dirty water

and our eyes gouged out with looking.

Oh.

Child.

When did the child die?

And how white are the whale’s bones.

There, down there.

How did you wait for me this morning.

Oh sequin.

Eye.

Our hearts evolved

from our throats—

Site, IV is from Into Perfect Spheres Such Holes Are Pierced (Alice James Books, 2004).