Regenesis in Corded Lace

Sunspot seeping in the cellar's laundry,
the bodies give a rise
under wrinkled lids of that beam —
it quivers.
  
One mirror earns my sympathy
and so, in the slither of fish,
to drown only once
and burst out by the river's tongue
in the expanse of a foaming form —
roar against schist and jasper shoreline —
concede then I a rickety crypt
and sail my dead out in salt brine.
The sun winces away.
  
Corns of silence, this self-reliance,
pain the walker each foot down the winded preserve,
telling herself feet come and go so they please; only the metro tends a schedule.
  
But maybe they rally fear —
the carcasses of neurons we scattered,
personas disjointed by the creek's whirling whips of diffusion.
I look in a still, noisy viewfinder.
I,
I cannot be left undone.
  
Roll forward the sundial, this time for sure.
The cerulean leaps off the tide.
The flashbomb strings atop the totum —    
a host.
  
Resuscitated, undrowned, projected back from the breaking water into a bed of crested iris,
I palm my face. I cry from the nose.
Isn't there a true beauty in the head.
Isn't there a true beauty in the head.