The Year Made Out of a Cut in Your Civilization

Out of the lamb’s eye where the dead  

shop for perfumes and bronze-colored cake. Out of  

the buttered cobs, embarrassing and sweet corn  

in your teeth. Out of a fog  

engorged above Baltic waves. The loan-sharked waves. Out of how 

happy we all could be. Out of the gun in the girl’s dress pocket. 

Out of seamstress and the ghost. Out of the unkind,  

blond-haired spring where your name goes missing in the wind.  

Out of crispy fish skin regressing to oil. Out of your Polish side  

draping its scales over your Russian side. Out of the branch’s  

private misery. Out of your gums the last leaf  

and Yiddish tooth. Out of the refurbished, de-fished sea.