and how to do the swamps
exploding the sea. our bed and bared
a semaphore turns and flame,
cracking the half-oily thumbs. the lid

for velvetal purpose
with a hole through the arms,
its news to say:
her breath parts the circles,

songs at the comfortable aching of smoke:
never a division of rain.
the wind tried to hang kicking fur of clouds
tattered into the names from the bath.

take the dates, and forever
the wet lightning’s belly of heavy talons.
it’s been found, she said.
her tongue is this crying like a tomb.

B.J. Best is the author of three books and four chapbooks of poetry, most recently But Our Princess Is in Another Castle (Rose Metal Press, 2013) and Yes (Parallel Press, 2014). I got off the train at Ash Lake, a verse novella, is forthcoming from sunnyoutside. He lives in Wisconsin.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to ritual

  1. Pingback: I, for one, welcome our compupoet overlords « B.J. Best, Poet.

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