Suppose you wanted something: not how
much. On the ex/tensive margin, choice

hangs as cold light in colder air. Leave
your history at the dock, step in. The ex/

is the knife-edged bay; the rip-tidals then
less discernable. At the pulpit of your

consciousness and conscience, float where it
takes you – then what must sink? The in/

tensive margin is a matter of the heart, the
canvas tied and noosed; the nook under

the deck where secrets sit in blue, waiting
silence. What then is tensive but current,

after the ex/, the in/, and – here, sail into
an opal mist; not margin, but the wider,

day-vast ocean relenting again.