Gun oil mixed with salt on Nakano’s skin.

Teeth wrote Sugimoto’s sermon in. “Flesh!

You watched!” The accusation, sharp and thin.

“Of course.” The Captain’s fingers knew the fresh,

wretched truth; touch betrayed what lips denied.

Inside the lieutenant’s loose braids; gaping

ropy, womblight. C-scar from the Pearl’s Bride.

Outside, marched raw rude recruits to morning,

mid-plight; the space between snap and then twist

entire. No spider here, just deeply spun

strands, peach-shellfish swallowing each other

down. O serpentine tryst chaff and cyst mist.

As in rise, flesh! Fresh pretty inch. Wet nun

womblight. Bride’s nattered Pearl-butt, now ruder.