I say, Thank you.
You say, No, I think I might have
carbon monoxide poisoning,
and the way the looped wire casts
shadows dissecting your face
into slivers I count, re-count,
you may be right.
You say, I want to make love
out of cardboard boxes,
corrugated for your pleasure.
Where water and road
bend together, bracelets of protein
denatured, cardboard boxes
won’t work, I say, and begin to trace
iron letters on your galvanized steel
mouth: acidulous quartz and orthoclase,
marble veined with other,
second layer phloem, redwood,
if possible. Did we start building
bell-curved breath upon bell-curved
breathlessness? Spring migrates
while you force me phonemes.
I try to …

Samuel Beckett sympathized with lobsters. A female liaison told one of his biographers, James Knowlson, that when they would dine together at the Iles Marquis in Paris, they would always sit as far as possible from the trout and lobster tanks because of how much they upset “Sam.”
The detail appears in an early short of Beckett’s, “Dante and the Lobster,” the first in his collection More Pricks than Kicks (1934). The protagonist is a university student named Belacqua. He is obsessed by Dante, and named, rather curiously, …

Colima, Jalisco, Nayarit
We are unafraid here, and within
The neat cup of our arms is where
We hold everything in place
You think we do not speak because
Our faces have been baked into
Expressions of open-mouthed surprise
But we do not need to speak because
Our mouths are flutes, and the
Hollow sound of our voice needs no words
We have no eyes because
The twelve points of the sun act as our guide and
The nine turrets of the moon hang heavy around our neck
We have no feet because
There is no need to run
The earth is our strength
We do …