so many things wander
   in the night of the world - electric
  saw of the Hemiptera's wing uncertain
   of its path, or a hand like a beast
   in the ornate flesh, the sea of
undergarment with its saltine moistness,
limbless lips frittering onto squashed out
      softnesses that remember the fervor
  of grip or the pleasures of breathing after

     the tempest of beings,
   so many things in different placements
   displacing me here,
   savoring the impact just before the crunch of the bone,
   down to its last ache between the
    gnash of teeth and the miserly space
   of cerecloth to a body—

  they are many things trundling
   in the moment and i am just as much,
  yet a passing only, scouring the walls
   of graffiti emblazoning abstract unfathomably reachable and misunderstood, lost in ineffable translation — this doting darling
    contemplates death and
i understand now, going deeper
  as fish sinks into further blue,
wet with something else but water.