Hello, Alberta! Chisel-cracks
expose me, lying on my back
as if inside an ancient shell,
toes dainty – and the rest gone slack.

I flipped (this isn’t how I fell)
and drifted like a caravel
out into open waters. Spite
insists: that could be you, as well –

the one who hoists me into light,
who mines me for his cololite,
plucks charcoal from the mush of ferns.
The self, that secret ammonite

withdraws within its osteoderms:
let gloved shit-sifters choose their terms.
I crop my leaves, their tips brushed black,
while everything around me burns.