Living with them is like hawking through
hellfires. We’re all lost, with all aboard
battering the Black Triangle. Toward
the upper reaches, buzzing lighters
quarter the surface until cracks start
to form in the ocean floor. We live
on the extreme. When all the parrots
mutter in their sleep, we take it down.
And again, when the winter moon sets
hugely into the sounds, small waves lap
up the echoes. We record them all.