This is a room or an un-intact nest, oblique twines left to devour the rain and slowly the park bench. We bathe ourselves here in the damp tangles, pass everything through our skin so that our bodies might impersonate our birthplace, so that we might become coherent in the same way as an animal found only on this one island.

This is a panic map
he connects the microbe
to the cyclone, he is
distinctly immaternal, ferociously
nocturnal, he is
a child in a rowboat,
the pattern churned on
the harbor.


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