Barbara Mor, from "Oil"

There are nets in the eye that catch the light, images

like wild beasts are gathered in, tints of flesh

moving through high grasses, blades of helicopters rounding up

stray clouds, a white horse

rears behind a chain-link fence, a woman convulses

thru the thick eyelashes of death, hidden cameras who capture

earth like prey, angles of skin thrashing and

 the steel neighing of the wind, and bodies falling slowly

inward to the spread retina,

as the drowned sink thru darkening lenses of the sea

skeins groping, gathering what is done, naked bodies

on ocean bottom wrapped in

bailing wire, blind maps, powerlines coiled as serpents, veins

of rabid dogs, ancient fish swim by,

growing gears and claws, the brain

is drawing black lines around the faces of windows, bored guns

stretch out calm along the sides of sharks

submarines sunk between small buildings, dinosaurs

in extinct shoulders of engineers, stars, what is left of

neon wedged in dark throats

shiny black lines stitch up anemones, vulvas, the sucking mouths

of the great crowd, continents

wounded like beasts trailing bandages of water, images

twist in the brain like

snapshots of caught fish, trussed

with ropes of salt and imploding umbilical knots

mortices and scales of deep museums, reptiles of

cold walls, long echoes, the weight of oceans on locked glass cases

of eyelids, cracks in stone where horses

are leaping, hooves thrashing out

nerve-nets hang in underground rooms, strung with pale tissue,

wrenches of iron, ganglia open their mouths

and the wind screams thru them, tapestries evolve thru skulls

in perstaltic rolls, the history of protoplasm

of surgery, of mirrors, lost civilizations with their skins

preserved around steel bowels, calcium blueprints

in the tile of floors where

people danced ten thousand years below the sea

sunk in beds of gravity and black fire, basalt

stitches in flagellates and cities from

our still bones, and bellies of spiders drift among the waters

with silent engines, all nets are loosened

in a steady breathing,

and tightened again, and loosened again, as photons and

worlds are woven and undone by

the retina, as eons sink thru night

with its webbed hands.