I am thinking now if, up from within the excess
of this dream, the deep green sea
tracing the boundary of inside and
out will ever gather itself to speak
through me?
I wear the former in pictures like a necklace,
like a pendent, a third eye from my first love:
he is not well and all that matters is that
he is not well. Not ever well. Or maybe
he is and I, in so believing in a kind of breath
that does not need breaking, am not. I do think
of him often. I am plagued for it. For him and
for others, for me and
no! Do not touch me.
No, touch me, [gently].
I want to drench the earth
with my viscous soul
hung in air by wire fuses.
I want yours reflected
I want everything I know
I cannot have in abundance
because I know myself, I know myself
this self of the horizon line who cradles
“I am moored along the soft,
shored unity of impatient ruin”
against a gathered throat as distance induced by silence.