High Watermark Salo[o]n: Goloborotko's Eyes  

Eyes, hundreds of them
tower in our house now
a temple, a musical score. 

See whole notes flattened
into boats: some submerged
some space ships - all off 

some sweet shoreline curve.
Her Brazilian coast over
& over in fragment as mind's 

eye remembers el estero
in utero. Each iteration
an opportunity opening. 

Some veiled, some blocked.
Chine-colle refiguring
the metal hull she etched 

by hand. See her scrape 
each barnacle, each surgical
scratch, grinding a grid 

to accommodate migration's
reconfiguration. Kabala.
Karma. See what you can. 

Sing along into and out
of the frontera  mapped
in the neural path blinking: 

next next nest nudge me.
Or maybe it is a dirge
I misunderstood. Look again.