there’s a black bulbul you can put in your eyeballs
  to make countless aerial sallies for things lost to human abandon
& bring back a train full of still-hungry hallucinations—
  everything is only real if you can believe it is.
Lot’s wife could believe that she was Lot’s wife,
  unashamed, mouthless pillar of salt
or she could believe that she had a name claimed by the ripple of 
  lone voices who made her look behind.
Lot, that day, had ironed out his ears.
  he believed in god-given names, believed he was, in fact, Lot.
but his wife realised she was a girl.
  she promised the city tenderness & spine,
& believed that there is no god but the God you can call with a bruised mouth 
  & not have his name cause a seismic whisper through your body.
her husband had a different idea.
  every dawn he kissed the contusion on his prayer-soaked knees 
& dreamed of orchards spilling therefrom.
  the day the girl turned rock salt,
her husband,    Lot,
   in fact, a boy, 
swallowed his eyes back into the moonless pit of the body.
  no moon to erupt the pill of salt tides
& no eyes to swallow it back.
  but the rock salt was not afraid of being sea-run,
she had become a poem.