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.