Tag Archives: Mina Loy

10 Dead Poets (I would fuck)

30 Oct

 Welcome to Poetry Crush’s 3rd annual  10 Dead Poets (I would fuck).  Thanks to my deranged contributors– you guys are so messed up:  Miracle Jones,  Janaka StuckyJennifer L. KnoxTodd ColbyJoanna Penn Cooper,  Lauren Hunter, Gregory CrosbyLisa Marie Basile and Gabriel Don— together we make up the clandestine members of the Dead Poets (I Would Fuck) Society (along with past participants:  2011, 2012).  Stay spooky! – j. hope stein 

1)  Shakespeare by J. Hope Stein



In a press conference held in front of Romeo & Juliet for Peace headquarters in downtown Philadelphia, artist / activist / entrepreneur / provocateur Juliet Capulet confirmed there were two deaths in the most recent Romeo & Juliet for Peace demonstrations, when violence erupted after a group of activists, wearing nothing but paint from head to toe of the colors of the Israeli and Palestinian flags conducted orgies throughout Jerusalem and the Gaza strip.  “We are still trying to understand what happened. We think there was a personal dispute which led to a fight.   What is certain is that we have lost two individuals.  A Romeo and Juliet.”  Capulet said the names of the deceased will be released once the families have been notified.

Capulet appeared to be holding back tears when she explained, “The point of demonstration ‘SMEAR’ was to show that when we love each other the colors of our flags smear together and war disappears.”  Many accuse Capulet of romanticizing the deaths, including one member of the media who shouted as Capulet read her statement– “This isn’t a fairytale, honey.  Two young people are dead.”

Capulet said there were 600 activists in total:  300 Palestinians and 300 Israelis, who were positioned at “epicenters of conflict” throughout the region where they were reciting the famous balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet while engaging in group sex.

Romeo & Juliet for Peace began 7 years ago as an international dating website connecting young5248f903afba4.preview-620 progressive singles romantically in warring nations in protest of their government and older generations who they viewed as “impotent against the problems of war.”  Romeo & Juliet for Peace is free to its members and Capulet, who has cited John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s peace campaigns of the late 1960s, including “War is Over (If you Want it)” as her biggest inspiration, takes no advertisers, only elite sponsors who partner in grassroots campaigns like ‘SMEAR,’ designed to spread her anti-war message.

Within the first year Romeo & Juliet for Peace made a big international splash with its t-shirt line, available in over 50 languages, quoting poignant passages from Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet.  But it’s the best-selling t-shirt with the Romeo & Juliet for Peace tagline that made Capulet a multi-millionaire overnight, saying:  “We’re going to fuck and fuck and fuck until nobody knows where to point their guns.”

When asked by a member of local media if Capulet will rethink her tactics, in light of the deaths of the two activists,  Capulet said the recent violence only strengthens the purpose of her work and that the incident has increased registration to the website in the past 24 hours by over 4000%.  “This is the fastest growing website in the world.”

One of the main attractions of The Romeo & Juliet for Peace website is a live tally of the number of registrants, as well as the number of active relationships and babies resulting from the service.  There were worldwide celebrations last June when the number of babies surpassed a million.  In addition, offshoots: Romeo & Romeo for Peace and Juliet & Juliet for Peace, have both become the go-to dating sites of choice for the international gay community.

When a member of CNN asked – what is your goal?  Capulet responded, “Our goal has always been clear:  To fuck and fuck and fuck until no one knows where to point their guns and eventually they will point it at their own hatred.”

“I have deployed 60,000 ‘troops’ in dozens of countries targeting high-conflict epicenters worldwide who are ready to put their lives on the line.   And they aren’t going to blow themselves up or drop bombs on anyone.  They are going to recite Shakespeare and touch until their flag paint smears into the color of one earth.”

Capulet also confirmed that she has received several death threats on herself and her family, adding,  “My family is already dead.  And if I were killed, another Juliet would take my place.  We’ve planned for that scenario.”  Very little is known about Capulet herself, including her real name.

Capulet then recited the final lines from Romeo and Juliet and took no more questions:

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

2) Emma Lazarus & Julia Ward Howe by Miracle Jones


“I did not actually invite the two of you here to this bar beneath an extremely cheap boarding house with available rooms to talk about starting up a new reading series in Brooklyn, dearest Julia Ward Howe and most honorable Emma Lazarus.”


“Your duplicity remains the stuff of legend, Mr. Jones!”

“Allow me to introduce the two of you to each other. Actually, both of you need to have a little more O Be Joyful. Here.”

“I never turn down more O Be Joyful.”

“Topping me off is the least you can do, thank you. And I WILL have another tea sandwich.”

“This is Emma Lazarus. She is most famous for writing America’s “Casual Encounters” advertisement, a distinction which both edifies and debases us all in a particularly permanent way. This advertisement sits on the base of the Statue of Liberty and is called “The New Colossus.” It is a sonnet, which is not exactly experimental, but there is something extremely passionate about the entreaties the poem contains. There is, if I may be so bold, a yearning that I find most remarkable, not the least of which because the poem is so quotable. You have really captured something crude and spirited about our young Republic, something which would take a truly labyrinthine — and wicked! — mind to apprehend.”


“Why are you putting on that stovepipe hat and false beard?”Emma-Lazarus-courtesy-MJH

“And this is Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, wife of the honorable Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe. She is also a poet, in addition to being an abolitionist, social activist, women’s rights advocate, and pornographer.”



“Enough with the charade of high-minded indigination! I read your book “Passion Flowers,” Mrs. Howe. I also read “The Hermaphrodite.” I liked them both. They are both books meant to be read with one hand, if you know what I mean. I also know that you have some championship-class pearl sweat going for Abraham Lincoln. We all read the blog post in “The Atlantic Monthly” that you wrote the night you met him. All that stuff about his awesome shining sword and his big fat truth and how you want him to split you like a serpent, and then rage-fuck you like a dude stomping grapes.”



“I see neither of you have run screaming from the room yet. The door is right there. Do I detect a flush from you, Mrs. Howe? Is that a pretty outlandish understatment? What reason do you have to loosen your dress so flagrantly and with such strong movements, Miss Lazarus?”

“I feel that I must not leave or I shall starve for oxygen. Something in your words transfixes me.”

“You are yearning to breathe free, eh?”

“My own lines! They convict me!”

“And you Mrs. Howe?”

“It is difficult to remain anything but…agitated…while you are wearing that horrible stovepipe hat. Quickly! Do you have any of Mr. Graham’s crackers?”


“There are no Graham crackers here, ladies. Just another bottle of rotgut, an extremely large feather bed, some fresh oranges, a stereoscope full of French daguerrotypes and one that I stole from Andrew Jackson himself, heavy black velvet drapes to block out both the sun and the prying eyes of Le Moyenne Bourgeosie, two blister packs of Plan B, a blacklight poster of Walt Whitman, a whole goddamn tube of KY jelly, snacks from the bodega, the Delmonico’s take-out menu, a length of good Yankee rope, and both a Rebel and Union regular army uniform, which we can take turns wearing.”



“Upstairs, ladies! Follow me upstairs! For God and country and poetry and the Golden Door! WE HAVE A UNION TO MAKE, PRESERVE, PERFECT, AND SUSTAIN” 


3) Mina Loy by Todd Colby


I don’t know that I’d actually like to have fucked Mina Loy, but I could see myself cuddling with her after we tried on one of her hats, and danced around the room to the Velvet Underground; throwing our bodies through space and just generally feeling that sense of abandonment that is granted to us with another person, but only a few times in our short lives. I see us walking around the Bowery, picking through junk for her collages, schlepping a red wagon stuffed with detritus, carrying it up to her apartment, and then watching with a joyful admiration as she assembled it into something beautiful. I’d walk over to her and kiss her long neck and whisper that she smelled good, and then we’d tumble onto the floor and whisper poems back and forth to each other, lost in a swirl of time and intimacy. She’d laugh as I read her one of my poems and sigh, reaching over to caress my shoulder and then she’d shuffle through one of her manuscripts and read me something she’d just written. I’d smile and feel a warm glow of recognition that a kindred spirit was sitting in front of me and that perhaps the world wasn’t as dark and obscene as I’d been led to believe; that perhaps there were two people in a room, getting along well enough to dance and read poems to one another without worries about insults or recriminations; that it was possible to be in a room with someone as life swirled around us, and we swirled with it.


4) Walt Whitman by Jennifer L. Knox


Why bang one dead poet when you can bang everyone and everything in the cosmos?

The young men bathing at the river, the washer women on the shore draping wet white sheets over the stone banks to dry, the dogs barking at them, the tall ships sailing by, wind flooding their sails with the breath of God, the breath of God, the breath of the sailors aboard those ships, and the sailors—Land a’ Goshen!—all those sailors in their tight blue pants, the color blue, colors, the letters in the word “color,” all the letters in every language that has ever existed, hieroglyphics, the pyramids, everything triangle shaped thing, novelty foam Cheesehead hats, etc.

After Walt had his stroke, he recuperated in a cabin by a stream where he’d bathe in the icy water, stimulate his skin with the bristle end of a hairbrush, and spank his own flanks with the wooden handle. That kind of freakiness cannot be created nor destroyed, only changed into more freakiness. Hey, it’s science.

Every person who has ever known lust is buoyed in the eternal wake of one of Walt’s explosive orgasms, which are still exploding all around us—like the volcanoes dotting the lush green mountains of Hawaii—destined to smother us all in a scalding beard of lava.

I don’t have to “choose” to make love to Walt. He chose to make love to us, long ago, and is humping us right now—every day and night—all of us—in the mouth, etc.

Sometimes I’m like, “Get off me!” but it’s like standing in the checkout line at Trader Joe’s: you just got to relax, breathe, and give into it. Otherwise, you’re gonna choke somebody out.

Everything in America is full of sex but Americans. So open your fire hose of liberty, big daddy. You almost makes me feel like I’m French, or an ancient Roman, or made of light that penetrates clothes. Especially pants. You were never a breast man, but you looked hot in a pirate blouse.

5) Langston Hughes, Claude McKay, Countee Cullen, & Jean Toomer by Lauren Hunter


SOME FANTASY If I woke up one morning in the 1920s I’d hightail it to Harlem, Borrowing my mama’s best dress And last week’s wages I’d obviously be the cause for many fistfights; They’d call me “la Muse d’135th”— La la. I’d split my time generously Spending the spring in red dreaming with Langston

A queen from some long-dead Egyptian night Walks once again

Feeling the beat of the blues with our hands And sending them on their way with our mouths

Come with a blast of trumpets,  Jesus!

Come summertime, I’d be Claude’s only, in green We’d burn nights at drink, strolling and watching as Harlem Wrapped us in open arms

Oh, with our love the night is warm and deep!

From the cabaret to the nightclub, to the café to the pool hall

Touching the surface and the depth of things   Instinctively responsive unto both Tasting the sweets of being and the stings…. Like a strong tree against a thousand storms.

The fall I’d play young, fast and free Days and nights at dance with Countee What if his glance is bold and free                                                                         His mouth the lash of whips? Spinning through the careless weather, High on Harlem wine, I’d not mind the coming chill

Its measurement of joy compute With blithe, ecstatic hips.

In the winter, I’d hole myself up in a warm apartment Full of books with Jean. The door locked for the season, We’d read late into the night by lamps

whisper of yellow globes

By day linger in bed, covered in pages

then with your tongue remove the tape and press your lips to mine till they are incandescent


6) Clarice Lispector by Janaka Stucky


The corners of your eyes often return
To me at night when I am working
Spectre of an exorcised dragon
The light and the Light
Catch in the rim where
I could live for centuries amid your black lashes
     Clarice the spectre
     My story is that I am living without you and I am failing
Watch me fall slowly
Away over years
Your subtle smile poisoning
My every effort to forget
This heroic dream
Clarice the spectre
You look at me and only then
Am I in the world
Filled with this happy instinct for destruction
An abyss I make my home each time we meet in our permanent sleep

7)  Joe Brainard by Joanna Penn Cooper


I would like to have a short, funny romance with Joe Brainard after he moved from Tulsa to New York, but before he finished coming out.  Most of our romance would involve lying around in our underwear on a mattress on the floor, looking at magazines and going into a reverie about things we remember.   Then Joe would get up and go to the corner store to get a Pepsi for himself and a Dr. Pepper for me, and we’d stand in the kitchen and eat a cantaloupe I brought over.  After that, we’d collaborate on some drawings with words.

Later, I’d go to Europe for a while, then live in a few other states, maybe ending up upstate. We would have settled into a great lifelong friendship by then, exchanging a large number of postcards that were sort of poems and sort of not, some with drawings.  The postcards would be like a book just for us and for whoever came to my studio later and seemed worth bringing out the shoebox full of postcards for.   There’s one that I particularly like, done in Vermont, with a drawing of one lone shoe.  How is the energy of a person left behind in a lone shoe like that, or in a postcard?

[I’m not too far off here in linking heterosexual romance with Joe Brainard.  In Joe: A Memoir of Joe Brainard, Ron Padgett writes, “At various times Joe was strongly attracted some of his smart, beautiful, talented women friends.”  In fact, in 1972, Joe wrote, “One thing I want to do before I die is to make it with Anne Waldman, without offending Michael Brownstein [her boyfriend].  The old have your cake and eat it too bit.  The story of my life.  And now that I think about it, making it with Michael Brownstein, without offending Anne Waldman, wouldn’t be bad either.”]

8)  William Blake and Christina Rossetti by Gabriel Don

Screen shot 2013-10-29 at 6.34.28 PM

9)  Louise Bogan by Gregory Crosby

Bogan_Louise460 No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square. Not square, but severe. They hang the word restrained round your white neck like a choker, but an elegant one, simple, black. Lace-curtain Irish, mother unstable; romantic & preoccupied with sexual betrayal. At midnight tears run into ears. I would like to kiss them away, but I wouldn’t presume. The blue estuary of your skepticism, a fire cold as flame. The satisfaction & trap of minor perfection. The drudgery of book reviewing. No more pronouncements…   When was the last time someone mentioned you? I’d like to take the arm of “Medusa,” “Cassandra,” your “Women,” & promenade down the boulevard of poetry fierce & nearly forgotten. Did Ted Roethke have you in mind when he said I knew a woman, lovely in her bones? I bet your bones glowed. Especially in the dark. I bet you didn’t suffer fools, least of all yourself. I can’t help but think “Epitaph for a Romantic Woman” is your own. I bet your smile was something to behold, a private supernova of surprise, like a kiss bestowed on the undeserved… I cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering; surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy. 


10)  Marosa di Giorgio by Lisa Marie Basile 

Letter to Marosa

136_wi250_he250_cr1-1.1352820540Marosa, have you thought of me since we last met? Have you thought of the time I wore my hair like yours? I doubt it. I wore my hair like yours to say, “here, take this as transcendence.” I became a growth, an orchid, a nightshade. A woman. In the end I closed my eyes and plunged my hands into the bucket of the garden and pulled something out; you; sweet and angelic and instant as the sky. I knew it was too late to chase you, you had gone, and I was left at the vanity mirror with my legs open hoping the city would understand: I don’t mean to sexualize you or our world. I mean to let you crawl inside me. So I can give birth to you, or through you, so I can make things like you-like a woman-lantern, a mâché of the self, an in-loveness with the world as it isn’t and is. I fondled the night. I let loose my hair from it’s kindly bun, spoke in a frazzled Spanish and watched the rain fall. Someone told me a monster walked past me, right behind, like a door opening, intentions and all. And I believed them, because you would. Because the ivy growing up the side of the yard house wouldn’t have done that if it didn’t want to own something. I’m owned by something, someone. I’m owned by the world around me like a garden glove. It helps to imagine my own seedlings sprinkled, it helps to imagine us kissing. You’re old and I’m young and it can be very beautiful. Tell me to keep seeing the world this way, because everything else is alone, and my tongue falls nicely into your tongue, because I was born wayward and green. As a letter Unsent. I mythologized you because I saw the spirit carrying her tray of floral candies, and when everyone said, “sleep” I needed someone to say, “it’s ok, this forsaken town is just broken.” We will make love in the centro. We won’t mind the Catholics. They say they see the angels but we know we do.

10 Dead Poets (I Would Fuck)

23 Oct

A  very special halloween issue of Poetry Crush.   Thanks to all my necrophiliac contributors, especially Lauren Gordon who co-edited this post.

1.  Lord Byron

By J. Hope Stein

Lord Byron

I was teasing LB
that it was a shame we were not alive
at the same time & looking
at his mouth

(All lips come from an appetite
to taste what’s in front of you)

How do you do it, LB?
Not one flat line
in all your work.

“Shakespeare” he said

& asked me to look
into his eyes–
“Americans don’t look into each other’s eyes.”

Be easy on me LB,
I’m a happily married
American woman
(Under the table I was kicked by his club foot.)

He continued to speak of Shakespeare & timing
& I continued my immersion
with his mouth. His lips
were two flourishing organisms

kinked at every aspect.
Hunger clung to them.
& the fish on his plate
— they devoured it.

“I’m a man” he said
“not an object
for your admiration.”
Under the table

I was kicked by his club foot.
It was never lost on me,
we were meant for an exhaustless
& bungled affair.

But we are not
(for now) living
in the same century.
Admiration is what I have to offer.

2.  Anne Sexton

by Victor D. Infante

The Curious Call
for Anne Sexton

I hear your laugh as gentle bells; escalating pitch to mocking as I read your book in darkness. Me, odd teenager unashamed of being seen reading poems in public, reduced to straining eyes to read by moonlight, to keep this undiscovered, as though “Love Poems” were the girlie magazines kept hidden, and at night, alone, I marry the bed. You were blood quickened and unbuttoned blouse, those nights; you were geometry and roses. Let me study cardiovascular tissue – yes! Let me suck on the stems of flowers – yes! Let me make certain tribal figures … for this thing the body needs. You were the other thing this body needs, the thing not two-dimensional and stashed behind the bed, out of sight of parental prying but easily accessed, an unzipped fly; your poems a radius between that silly, easy tawdriness and something else entirely. First comprehension of wanting, of its slipperiness, of its blood orange sweetness. First comprehension of that thing after the gun, after the kill, after the martinis and the eating of the kill. First comprehension of the villain, how he stirs in my darkness, how he’s stirring still. He’s scratching letters to you, Anne, grunting curious calls, carving hieroglyphics on the walls of some cave I can barely acknowledge. He says “love,” but I am unconvinced. And still there is this other thing, this simmering want that steams the space between the poems and body. Not love, no, but enduring, yes, and real. You are not watercolor, Anne. You have not washed out.

3.  Pablo Neruda

by Lea Deschenes
Why I’d Like to Fuck Pablo Neruda

His gaze, which I imagine
lamb-soft and lambent. Hands
deft as diction. Cock
pointing straight to midnight,
and oh! The tongue,
painting scriptures.

You, who tied an onion belt
up to the heavens, Pablo—

who found the salt of earth
scattered and twinkling
as starlight—

to take you as lover
a man who saw a god
through every common object—

who wouldn’t crave a momentary
brush with deification?

Skin’s rough patches
fondled as suede,
lopsided tits a metaphor
for asymmetric justice,
wet spot as baptismal sacrament.

You found ecstasy in everything,
and it’s contagious.

4. John Berryman

By Lisa Sisler

Will the Real John Berryman Please Rise?

But how would I know if I was sleeping with John Berryman or Mr. Smith or even Henry? And who would be the better lover? I imagine Berryman, the poet — Would it be more aesthetically appealing if you placed your hand on my left buttocks and I moved counter-clockwise while smoking a pipe? (Dear Reader, you get the idea).   And Henry, unappeasable, lusting in dark corners and doorways, would need a take charge kind of partner—a Mistress to make each and every move. Sure it’d be fun for awhile, but sometimes a gal wants pursuit. Oh, Mr. Bones, whisper “paprika” into the hollow of my knees and “I’ll take off all my clothes and cross the damp cold lawn and down the bluff.”

5. Ezra Pound

Let those I love try to forgive/what I have made

by Lauren Gordon

(Pre 1925 Ezra Pound, not the Hitler-supporting, Mussolini-loving, Jew-hating, John Kasper-friending Pound.  Ezra who smoked cigarillos in his professorial office five feet away from the University president.  Ezra who was kicked out of Wabash for offering a storm-stranded chorus girl some tea and his bed for the night.  Ezra with a curly forelock and a scruffy beard.  Imagist Ezra who got off a train in La Concorde, looked at beautiful faces, and then wrote “In the Station of the Metro” –Ezra Pound who wrote a book of poetry to H.D. and HAND-BOUND it.

Does H.D. come with this deal, too?)

6. William Carlos Williams

By Lauren Gordon

What have I to say to you? Only that:
Every person has secret burden,
Yet –
Divining your witching well
Has been a drying process.

Only that:
I thought if I could be described
In just one word,
Earnest. You thought
“arborio” was more apt.

How can I tell you?
I give up the ghost
When you are close,
My breaths patters,
Drops like a fainting goat,
Pops like a balloon flower in Spring,
Gets as dusty as a box full of Nancy Drews at a Sunday Swapmeet,

Wait, you stop me:
A penny-farthing to a trike,
And you say:

My hair is dripping with nectar

How can I tell you
If I shall ever love again,

7.  Mina Loy

 by Jillian Mukavetz

dumplings (for Mina Loy)

mina is that kafka yelling “come touch me baby”? I bet hes making us dumplings. his credentials consist of unoriginal rain and the politics of wood soap. last I saw his guts were showing and he was taking a hit in the bathroom. i suggested some slippers next time. of course mina, hebrewing some debauchery can only mean that his time is tremendous. its important for us to note. indifference is like a foolish homicide. and besides, hes such a lovely fuck his voice mauve honey drags down the block. redeems all of my unjustified thoughts about mastodon hunting. tone-deaf and color-blind today will have to suffice. luckily, erasures experiencing stability issues is a joke that has flown over both of our heads.

8. Dylan Thomas

By Lauren Gordon

This is what it looks like: I’m sitting in a pub downtown on a Tuesday. I’m drinking a Tom Collins. I’m wearing sweater tights and penny loafers, purposefully. A worn copy of Freud’s “Three Essays on the Theory of Sexuality” is on the countertop in front of me. My inhaler is on top of the book. When he walks into the pub, light breaks where no sun shines. He’s next to me at the bar. Smells like smoke, leather. Five o’clock shadow, the whole nine. Whiskey, whiskey, whiskey. His eyes finally fall to Freud, crawl over the inhaler and Tom before lifting to mine, bold and direct. Half of his mouth smiles and with a thick Welsh accent he whispers, “A candle in the thighs?” We leave immediately. Light breaks on secret lots and we’re upstairs, where he lives, conveniently. It’s a loft and I’m not surprised. He makes tea and I’m surprised. He peels a fig and I’m less surprised. He takes me by the hand and his eyes promise to raze my body to the snow. He’s not too drunk to fuck, so we do. He thinks I’m a dancer named Caitlin. Later, when we wake, the moon lurches over the bed and the stars are wrinkled. I feel his lips on my ear, hear his voice catch when he whispers, “I am still at the mercy of words.”

9. Anna Swir

by Erika Lutzner

Her poetry is intellectually sexy which is the best kind of foreplay; “I touch your skin and my skin,/I am not in you/and you are not in me.”  I don’t know how the sex would be; we would both be so disassociated that it’s hard to say.  “It’s cold in here./Homeless, I tremble looking/at our two bodies/warm and quiet.” The speaker does not feel a part of her own body;  It’s as if her body and mind are not a part of each other. She is going through a storm of sorts. Trying to understand the machinations of her body and her mind; and at the same time realizes that one’s body is a part of self. Or is it?

 10.  Doc Ricketts

by Maria Garcia Teutsch

I Love Doc Ricketts

I walk over rocks into tide pools,
and search the air for his smell
of hair tonic and formaldehyde.
In negative tide,
I find abalone wedged between rocks,
feel the suck of anemones,
smell salt off the Bay,
seals whisker and bark above sea foam,
while otters twirl.
I chronicle how
kelp feels like a lover’s hair
as it slips through  fingers,
the tide can pull you out to the canyon,
jellies will wrap themselves around your thighs
and sting you there.
I see your bent
back as you plucked
eels from under shells.
the train track where you died–
all metal and steel, protoplasm and bone.
Steinbeck threw chrysanthemums on the tracks–
knowing he’d never to watch you pickle
octopi and sea cucumbers again.
Seagulls still chase trawlers,
and decorator crabs still scurry
over sea lettuce and dead man’s fingers.
Holdfasts are god’s forgotten anchors.
I scratch the salt of my skin
but it only flakes,
no name appears.