The voices are everywhere. There
They are crawling from the dead
Floater in the bay and taking flight.
The wet walls and eaves are speaking
Can you not hear them – again, it’s happening;
Damp mortar discourses on ibn sinna.
Each wave is its own word
And they pile upon pile upon pile –
we drown in the snotgreen sea
Where a deep priest and thousand-fold choir
Speak tongues to discourage the wanderer
unwilling to take a breath and stay.