Yesterday the sea urchins spoke to me
in their soft plant language—
that is, in that soft plant voice of theirs,
which crept up my limbs,
found my tender spots, sneaky tendrils,
and tinged my skin with violet.
 
Yesterday, too, the moon jellies touched me with their oral arms—
that is, with their blackberry-stained fingers,
which flooded my ears, settled in the cochlea,
put me in an eternal slumber. 
 
That night I had vivid dreams,
and like some girlish doe,
I fawned over the impermanence,
the fragility of "human."
 
All I could see through the thick haze
was the messy lagoon-sea of intimate emotions,
and I discovered the true algae nature
of our marbled, purple universe.
 
Languidly listening
to the lingering language of your tongue, 
half-delirious, lugubrious, mouthful,
I dreamed
that you would linger longer.
 
That your peach-sweet and honey kisses 
might become lethargic and lay low, 
lazily love me.