my hours grow by the sea
fetal harvests, debris of the shore.
they bear me nothing,
i do not want them anymore.

plucked from the root,
the moon purrs and the waves coil

necks stretched, bobbing
they grow longer and longer.
they do not know how to swim.
paperweight of thought floats,

sanguine languor
languid stings

unravel me to the swell of the moonlight.

from the threads of my lashes i weave my night, perhaps a fishnet bounding the legs. perhaps a veil hindering the breath. perhaps a blanket smothering the dream.

no.

not heavy enough.

there is more of me to spare, the air is ripe and our tears are young. gut my love on a daily. harvest my rest on a nightly. dissemble my consciousness perpetually.  

no.

not rough enough.

i am reconstructed as the sun slithers in, a dewy, melted apology filling in space between the limbs. what i lose in mass i replace in volume. grow loudly. this kind of volume.

no.

not sly enough.

one day i will be small enough that i can be made into nothing, and nothing can be made of me.

i cannot merely float.

the oceans bob,
close in: volatile embraces, limpid spoons of
breaths forced back into the throat, a frantic crumple of
cloth over the nose and the mouth. forged slumber.
i am on a sleepy seesaw.

the tides puppeteer,
enter: rough strokes, blistering strings of
insides tossed out of reach, a damp slither of
fingers into the skin and the bones. artificial fluidity.
i am on a reluctant voyage.

it’s hard to decide if i want to beach or set sail.

then again it’s not my choice but the sea’s,
then again it’s not the sea’s choice but the moon’s
then again it’s not the moons choice but

i don’t know how big the infinity is.

eventide i drift faced up.

borne me to the edge of the waters
beyond the earth where it’s senseless of ponder
where could you be, i’d wonder.
i cannot fold the thoughts of you into quarters.

a moonless night
my mind rowing through crippled legs of time
perhaps seasick by the slight;
i’d hurl a ripple of rhyme.

the oar of my chest throbs out of song,
the shape of this planet is far too round.
as i cease to wander i came to found
that you hold me adrift all along.

the horizon remains out of reach
contentment sails as we come across a beach.
as long as i may lie upon you, unfolded, in the sand
bit by bit i no longer fear the land.

a driftwood into the sea
we balance barely with your lanky limbs
and my flailing heartbeat.

wavering hours and quavering bowers
within me was the naivety of an embryo
squandering mass and volume,
upon your chest i was savoring ours.

the land i am from,
how i wish to preserve it in such a matter that
i could keep the dehydrated oceans from
enclosing my crisp pigmented limbs.

the light cannot be reflected from wings in the dark.

hang up your coat by the door, you say.
pin up the membranes of your past under the glass.

radiate upon me as hues pump through my vessels, old and new.
as i seek for the land i am from, a land with you.