March 30, 2007


over the rocks

loosely weaving them
together with a tongue
as limp as algae

rotting in the sun
each thought
punctuating the otherwise

easy flow of speech
tripping it up
on discarded entrails

heads and tails
and fear and shame
so it lands

on all the jagged bits
between the image
and the stutterance

—Anamarķa Crowe Serrano
(this poem was written as part of Offsets, a collective writing project which can be viewed at

Posted by dwaber at 12:14 PM

March 29, 2007


by the time I reached
the bottom of the sea
I had begun to fathom the sense
of liquid words. Intonation
curves like a tongue of algae. It
conjugates with the tide. And like
the tide, it
turns my white horse
into poems pulling me under
towards the tow where physical space
condenses time. A small rock
jutting above the surface
looks much like a wave of inspiration
and sure enough
far below I saw the remains
of mariners who had missed it
mistaking it
for something ethereal
that requires no words
or even thought
the lure of thoughtlessness being tempting
and the death it brings
sweeter still, taking just a few
seconds longer than in fresh water.
You can sense it
even out of the water
the density of prose in the air
the fleeting tone

—Anamarķa Crowe Serrano

Posted by dwaber at 12:29 PM