Cross It


The ebb tide. An empty tin.
Half-buried.
Emotion free.


On a full-moon body
Needles of unquenched for blood proboscises.
Lacking fury and bulging with fresh oxytocine,
Yielded to the choir

Whining in her head : ' Give
A man luck and cast him into the sea'�
Yowling cats in that October night

Trapped in a life consisting of a single chapter,
Octopuses putting their tents up,

Reef knots for every circle in Hell'�
Every now and then it splash-forked the reality.
Moon wails left her shivering in the claws of the dawning day'�
Eleven o'clock ' the sun and a scream. Eyes closed.
Maybe it was over. Sigh.
Bubbles and the distant sound of running water.
Eventually the sea.
Rigidly opening eyes.


The other woman is a girl in her mid-teens.
Her newly-born son won't be hers. At the
End a dog will receive the sublimated,

Postformated, maternal love. The sun.
Anybody craved for, yearned for, dreamed.
Surely, adoption didn't cross her mind
Then, but was it out of vanity or to give her cat an

Ideal chance to receive her
Sublimated, transformated hatred?




The flow tide. An empty tin.
Overcome. Free.

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