tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk! tusk!

your eyes, weighted, watch the glass

snatch its sound out the air.

in little hessikaner we fell in (or down),

little hessikan, your juniper hair

shines like strands of the sun resting

upon my shoulder.

and there’s the crux,

right in that light, hush’d

lull brown,

deep among your dusk

heavy sockets. rust

me down

within the crepusc

-ular tone, the tusk

is ground

into the small hole in my side where your hand,

cold,

now rests. like malagas

through the dust it only

digs deeper.

clinch my neck between your fingers,

bore that small hole through.

the marble caught the glass,

where the sun rises.