A Silvery, Slippery Thing

I, a silvery thing, come flashing by— by night or day, I don’t know when. I made a hook out of my intellect, and forged it into an icon of man’s ire— a slippery, silvery thing. My words enter the skeleton of the mind, which does not let the darkness out, nor let the earth’s

Pilgrims

We come to the island first. We think it possible and perfect, a fort of such esteem, we will live here like Egyptians, the pharaoh hovering over a pyramid so big it could just be the moon rising across the desert.. We grow in miniature. We are powerful. We are overfull with the bones and