the ivory clouds embellish the fortress

where it lives, mirroring in its beautiful agony 

the distress in which the human skin

warps an estranged contact, unafraid to ignore kin,


the mangroves, twisted into rusty harps, hold

a myriad of gulls and open calls,

a mother's cry.

She creeks in this cocoon of roots singed

in broken links

in-between my eyes

sunlight drapes utopias of black oil

salty beach

the margin is tangled.