It’s all an opening—posted and you reply, conveyed along the walkway while someone says “…moving forward” as elastic and gummy and lumbering as one of your crocodiles. These are the precursory laws of the land and they shake your hands firmly, son. Your tattoo was/is/will be a crocodile, a clump in the water you are subjected to, “in” relation, ten clicks away, a fold of bones on the shoreline jiggling up/down regardless and regardless. The blue world is firmly blue, is dark, pushed in the mouth of morning agleam with silver elevators. It stands for degrees. It’s all “up” from here on out. A mauled boar, headless and floating—his legs are up.