Because the book is dedicated to no one,
I began to travel by steamer—

each departed beach bestial,
and blue’s newest episode.

When I heard my sound separate from yours,
a sinew raw-scraped, blood-twined between the fingers,

sugarwater filled my yearling mouth,
still-barned, slow, yet so like the salty,

open-hatched wail of wife or fuse or home.
It is not that I do not love you,

beached in clay and masted potato vine,
its anchored thorns in place of me.