STEPHEN JOFFE

Bitumen.

there’s a city	under the city-
a party 		we are always late for.

but it is inevitable, the clock 	cascades
backward, & over itself	the water floods:
a constant 	state of becoming.

straight & slick	 jawed-
these lines from top to bottom,
these bones that become oceans,
this quiet kind of	sinking.

our speckled hand		plumbs
depths		 that do not want us;
until they reach back	& pull.

nothing	 	can save us:
we live twice	 in the dark.