I pick my gap-toothed cunt up off the floor.

I can feel it in my lap, trembling there

like a small insect. 

Oh cut the crap dear cunt, I tell it. 

The time it took the ocean to carve this valley,

that was one day in the life of a cunt.

Cunt of cordage and rigging, of shock

and sigh of wave. Then, yes—

with such strangeness it opens,

gives name to the sounds that rise early

at my window: wind and leaf

and leafblower and the opened husk 

of sun. The cunt could name mountains,

but its paper wings just beat and beat.