Skosh to six. Dawn is one hundred thousand women with candles in the field. White dresses, see through to bones. The hex of sight fixes me to the map of here: belong, wind recommends in the keen of its can’t. Don’t believe this shit, I’m just wording awake. The truth sounds deep- ly unsaid. Words erase what they speak. A poem’s a muzzle. Skosh to six. Dawn is the words “dawn is the words.” Until I say, no see. Seems. Why else this inveterate lingual scrumming? Head’s head’s only subject. Of course, sailors know head’s a shitter too. So far to go, to get from here to here. Wind wends from lost to skin to mouth to lost. A poem’s a sail (billowed).