On its sea voyage, my locket
moves toward me. A tusk,
a birdfish in the cargo hold.
The gulls and such, their
hunger. Recorded data:
noon, locket closer. Why
countenance foundering?
Waiting coos at my feet.
The newspaper thuds
on the mat, but I’m too busy
thinking about the locket.



I don’t understand blind faith
or how much salt is in the sea.
The ship’s propelled by
algorithim, robot arm.
The sea was darkness; after
the sea was time. The birdfish
washes its feathers, wire
trailing from its mouth.
I ignore the weather channel.
The sky dresses as sea,
which complicates everything.
I don’t know where to look.



Wanting to be productive,
I bought the locket. We’re only
here, we firmament,
to divide the waters
from the waters.
A man on the radio
says his parents are dead
so he touches iridium,
tungsten, copper.
When the world clicks
against the magnet, his face
lights up. Go ahead, search it.



I check the tracking number.
Waiting makes the hour
far down. The locket
has a little window
that what’s inside might peer
out. I feel like an automaton
whose function is to sit here.
I see the locket as sensible
compromise between this privacy
and the new yelling
everyone’s doing.



The sky gets in my clothes.
The fireplace stars little apocalypses.
Across the sea,
the goldsmith rubs her eyes.