G a r i n C y c h o l l
P a n t o u m
Eyes do little here;
we'll huddle together.
More or less continually at war,
eyes do little. Here,
salt winds locked
more or less continually. At war,
we sing hymns to yellow gods,
salt winds. Locked
in the estuaries, passing
into cordgrass. Our eyes swim and
hunker in the tides left. Between time
and not, rest here.
Into cordgrass, our eyes swim and
see in the marsh
and not rest. Here,
trace the skin between your fingers.
See! In the marsh
eelgrass strands bleed salt.
Trace the skin. Between your fingers,
these grasses don't say a goddamn thing.
Eelgrass strands bleed. Salt!
These grasses! Don't say a goddamn thing.
We'll huddle together.