Meek Words of Mine

I write to you, my eyes
peeling off the light,
my box floating in it, rocking
in the shells of stars.

So dry it is to wait there
for my prose to break
into fray sanding swords
down to needles, thin
as the scar of sea
stitched in my ear.

So the words beat slow
where the fog slings nets
to catch their bellies, swollen
bare in the places they fed
their blood to the clouds.