Andrea Rexilius



A dress


is for housing you


is the line


pull trundle & the bone


do go under




Lay the edges of Him and Him together; the edges of Her and Her alike; all edges align and when aligned are no longer edges to be found. A continent on a map: Russia and China; holding hands like lovers, stitched; little lovers of minutia Hungary and Turkish, throwing lines into the wake; the birds eat these like berries. The birds perch on the horizon, a telephone wire transgressing distance, find the way home.




He a continent on the outskirt; a mass; a mast arisen on the horizon we see for seeking shelter on the high lee. A wave making contact with form; water lapping at the ear. He is here. The women gather the cloth tight around their bodies; mind the Hem; mend it. The men flock together and plot the navigation. He has arisen. A sheet hovering above the bed at night. I felt a lighthouse brink blink in my throat. A hundred doves set free. I found Him wet on the bank of Gibraltar; erased, my red sea a memory a version of Him I revised.



Her thoughts of frequency were not ones of course or matter. Movement did not occur, but in the lines of her face, on the shape of her mouth where the words came out differently than they once did. Traveling upward now, meaning only, north and south, while at the same time retaining, motion eastward, thought bound westward.


Convergence. A mild circumcision. Note the apparatus. The wind.