There are eleven lighthouses on your coast and
each one is brick, stone, cast iron lonely. Ocean,
the loose skin of an animal stripping itself against
coastline. One deer grazes on the foxglove back here
away from the sea’s graffiti, and I mainline a bottle
of Kraken black spiced rum. The idea was to make
every tea towel in your kitchen a ship’s flag, every
table cloth, a sail. The idea was to arrange your spices
by scent, to sell off the silver. To show how latitudes
can become horse, and how through my own pink heart
I put oars, and out my back sprout wings. I wanted
to find a way to explain to you why it is important
that the sun is now 23.5 degrees lower in the sky,
that the idea was, there are quantifiable ways
to say goodbye.

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