There is an ocean under a lake under a sky under an earth.
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I am digging under the carpet.
Carpet. Carpet feathers everywhere.
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The body of water moves, misses something.
Here. Always pulling. You know about gravity, and sadly never understand it.
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Circle sky of stars embedded in basalt caverns.
The water is the ceiling. The universe spirals into the infinite mirror.
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Under the carpet, mother’s old photographs of you.
Still of you and the men who touched you.
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Flocks of bats discard each other in reverse.
The mirror moves, breathes her wings towards the ocean.
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I have forgotten how many I have slept with, sit on the bathroom floor
drawing circles in the memory of what if.
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Deep earth. Hand drawn circles in bone. Mother moves inside you.
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I am crying and do not know which time it is. I light a cigarette in the mirror.
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The water touches on something. There is a vacuum of time you exist in.
Milk bats nurse from the black hole at the center of the cave.
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The bats have gone now too. Feathers. Feathers everywhere.
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I am wet but not here. The sheets are wet. There is an impression of someone
next to me.
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At some point I realize I can’t go home.