poem: they say, men fall off the bottom curve of the earth

he bit into her — in long, sloping strides, and their
After was like the fall of Troy, her dress caulking down to her
ankles in the same violet waves, as she had seen, in the leaving
of the wooden places she called Now, and now in his coming
between her, the ships rising and firing and not ever, not at all
sinking — as they do in her
nightmares, with the bellows lit in urchin-dragon throats and the
rocks of the sea broiled up to piss over the seven or seventy
hundred we might call — survivors, although she rises from the
water, ejaculating great streams of wave, and eats them
alive, unbreaking yellow — with the same tenderness she bit
into strawberries, served crumbling into half ripeness, and into
him, crumbling with the Full, coming open beneath her
like the sea, the storm, the opening — and the lost, turned
red and frighting, dancing bacchanal between her legs and
hands not unlike — you know — although, as she has taken great
care to ensure, he will not;
she has taken great pains — he has laid his world in the slope
of her back, he cannot see the sundry, the rioting in her eyes, when she,
facing down, comes and comes and Comes —
the tide smashing up and obliterating, it does not
feel, it cannot.