You made me want blood then
handed me the blade, now

I have only dragging
steel over everything or fitting

my knees in my mouth, where
I go when I want something

pure or approximately so.
A long blank space will do

or a remnant of blood.
The light arrives

in honeycombs and the wind
through funnels follows

and we are not here
speaking, just crammed.

This can’t equal the music
I heard—the interface only

allows a wind of blades
glitched out and aimed

at everything skin. I can’t
get near a bloody Mary, its

lewdness, its red forecast
of vomit, though there’s solace

in the marketer’s
commitment to the many

pills he shills. I feel I haven’t
really lost the blood

from my stomach so long
as I can see it on the deck.

The whales are below,
about to unleash

a net of bubbles that will
drive tons of panicky

mackerel to the surface
and to their deaths.

Hunger made us, they’d say,
that’s all, as it does you.

The lewdness of the great inflated
bellows of their mouths

is mitigated by the fish, explosions
of blades cutting the foam

with their dying, the gulls
screaming into the blades.

The lewdness
of the pen in my bag,

impaling the banana I got
on the flight from Denver,

the lewdness.
The body is a foe.