They Will Sew the Blue Sail

Gullfoal | Ally Harris

A tressed bauble unbees

capacity, hassle

in ides, dare

idea: why silence in shaves?

why shut dull, dry

in weed?

wear a dress, wrapper

like a Hershey’s kiss

—this, body

god or parent, pink

wrinkled, heeling

in sun, gobbed organ

in wind or gleaming

sorrel on white, a sanitized

& broken constellation—

To eat that shirt

until one bloats.

Dry fibers absorb pangs


the throat, a purse

of seconds.

To step out from the sandal,

to touch the

bloodwarm foot to the bare

bus floor before the exit.