Radio: and fine ink, a resplendent sun. an object makes waves, another takes and passes them. clean sounds, then clean long ones ay ee oh all along a curve we made. they found a piece of plastic whose angles matched those of the woman’s fuselage, they found a boot heel, they found a blade. each discovery, years later, then more years. we find the layers; we’re the layers and you won’t bring her back but you’ll find the echoes of her in the double helix of a bone, or was that a turtle’s bit of body there on the beach. she sent out distress signals and the men in uniforms looked for her, checked that island off the list, missed the fire scar, missed the shell that only a westerner would bring from water.


Radio: The word ‘poetry’ comes from a man’s mouth. A baby’s favorite color. The color aqua or sky blue. Woman’s hair spidering out, catching on my fingers, catching on the dirt in my teeth. Once I thought she was beautiful, now I see the rotting in the mouth, that bruise beneath her eye.