Karyna McGlynn

Après, the sluice then the hookthe one truth of the sluice is                                    nothing

a sudden gaff from the present:                                          nearly like
pleasure, aloft on the high twin bed
of your single, bodily craft, genital colored     satin quilt
in the glamyr of unelectric lamplight
there is a single way: smells like                            pondwater

so you nose-dive absolute through                      the solution
occluded by a cloche of predetermination
like a retrofit caul or swim cap                                             pulled down
over your mortal agency, don’t move
against the sluice, let it move you though         the blind
muscle memory of every deed
entitling you your face, gambling                         one big tell
over a crash of blackened war bonds