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 –
til 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