There Is No Land

at the very end of
there is no land,
no point
of departure into
the very end of
that clothing mental people
wear drowning
during the exact worst of journeys
precisely navigated
grief multiplied by the onset
of the very end of
piercing searing sound
all up and down the halls
first mates and crew
extreme revelations
infinity off the table now
where delicate imaginary flowers mix
worshiped with high sing-song
voices among a marble floor of amputations
the gluttons’ smoking blood
Tiresias now bolder
fathered once again, then fearless
no sanctified point
of departure