electric eels

the last sea where she (a bluish chop
in the water) her church is an open house
- he asks questions

in meter -   the safest leaves
are left behind     branches
vanish in the same purple fire

where here, black mornings
have poofed away and only he can endure
the loudest sounds of hearts beating

boots of Sunday     devotees stay
to chip away at seaside cliffs, fingering
hieroglyph stories

hers are left near the waterline below -
the fishes and snails make homes between
dependent clauses

              and catches of breath