Put your arms out in front of you to feel along the walls, every fifty feet there will be a metal stud –knock gently to hear it- you can use these to find your way back to the island, the aperture, an escape mechanism

The same way that, when a sea turtle dies

You can count the rings on a bone in its neck to tell its age, like a tree

Or how hummingbirds typically expire in their sleep, starvation setting in after a few hours without nectar

I trace the lines and future-ruts on my face: daily, several times a day and in several different mirrors (our cliché, the humming of a dramatic pop song on the radio between commercials when we used to listen)
Like footpaths and holloways carved by years of organic traffic: visible in hindsight, a scarification

A cultivated labyrinth, what hides among the endangered flora and fauna growing slinking along the architecture

A repetition of all the different ways there are to dream and drink without going in too deeply to the rivers of Lethe with its life sized crucifixes and cattails and lightning rods all peeking their heads above the high tide

You can hold these facts out in front of you like lights against the water while it rushes in


NATE MAXSON is a writer and performance artist. He lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. The author of several collections, he discovered poetry as a youth the way other people find religion or drugs, and hasn’t looked back since.