Salt Theory

Salt Theory

Forget science.

What’s undiminished lives in the salt.

The salt lives in the body, in the wound

the body will carry through the dead of years

like a hot coin under the tongue.


Half a pill is greener than a forest field. 

Half a syringe is a fireman’s favourite siren song 


reaching my ears from the cornucopia of perception. 

In the season of rotten apples across the garden 


& gravediggers who’ve become so afraid 

to touch their lover’s flesh under the night’s 


moonless outstare: a certain kind of lacking 

finger-deep inside the wet ashes of my cosmic soul.


Body, unbridged, an exiled monarch winged into 

the blinding torch of wonder, a heart’s arrhythmic 


nibble of grief before the executioner’s last sermon: 

We are not the lucky ones: even our simplest 


desires are somewhat sufferable. Didn’t we survive 

only to pledge allegiance to the sweet irony of elegies?  


In the beginning of chaos: a brush-footed butterfly 

nests on the razor lip of an axepalsying wings, 


contagious. Salt of its fear, my eternal dooming:

what tongues us open after the fire’s extinguished.


What are you looking for?