by Joshua Otto


Everywhere she strolls
lifting ancient tides
Seemingly to wait
only to disembark beyond
the least logical terminals
She approximates unlikely
ends with a shelled unwillingness of
method repeated as death claims
To be a matter of shifting papers  
consciousness become infinitely small
Paralyzed by her deafening sleep
a stillness originally meant nothing
Before fire was
the mad text of space
Called her to care and be
sacred for us