Note found on a nautilus corpse

My dwelling here is tight.
So tight my brothers
breathe in turns like music
in this heaving stone shell
which could have windows one day.
Or an open-plan with a pit
right in the center
where they’ll stop breathing
in such a dead hard thrust
this heaving stone shell will bust
like people in an oven.
If I get to it—traveling now—
I will grow hands to fondle
the world so left untouched
by the sailors outside,
as if the sand here was ash,
the horizon haggard, their own
sons obese distant or too cold
to on a tight nude night hotly behold.


~ by Jeremy on May 14, 2010.

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