pretend to be alive by

23 July 2025

strolling on top of
(dancing
lounging
articulating strange postures
on top of)

a tomb of mariners
a singularity of mariners
bruising everywhere under us anxious
without sea but emblazoning
subsonic sounds in our ears

though they’re somewhere else
they’re also here where
a child knits
(their needles yet click without rhythm)
apart from that it’s

silence
punctuated by bursts of a jolly
chorus
and
gunfire

or a torpedo
the sound of the hatch
closing
an explosion (did something go down?)
so it is with all submariners under in earth

their singularity
concentrates all breaths
towards one
pending
detonation