joyelle mcsweeney




split The Sun Sessions into high and low.
Sun made the coast impossible
to see, a static flash, the visual field
impassable. The road wound on continuously
as if that were possible. Until we were
needlepointing up.

Up! Construction of this world
is a job for laymen: linens,
ramekins—a cake for each guest,
a souvenir mussel shell no one can touch,
a whorl working inward. A song to sing in bed.

My lights and my heavies, pray, take note:
the bees as clean as young French Christians
lifting from the thicket
as they may and might. They retain
the mark of incision, they are ready to receive
restitution. Caught in the pincerlike
motion of

this world—the beauty
pageant in the walled city,
the doctors without borders
taking this opportunity
to reorganize—the Sea Similized
to Pastures, the Mariners to Shepherds,
the Mast a Maypole, the Fish