(I feel it in me like a dove)
like gods gentle on the oak beside my window cry
wind, hold nests made of plastic bags, kiss shadows
like the plant on the bookshelf does (with ease).
The ocean it keeps going, it goes and goes, it washes,
(I saw it in the black night and desired) it wets your tongue,
wrestles, swallows, digests, deposits, defetishizes,
(what once I wrote I writhe in) and spits up.
It takes me on and down to where I see no gods,
no giants, (no greatness against my gestures)
(a quiet apocalypse) where I make want
my middle name, where I unbreathe, where it goes like
I was made for it, like I go Atlantic, like I wear blue,
like I am made of it (o siren song, o dirge). I stop
breathing to save space. When I am still I don’t know it,
(there is no salvation in survival) and I don’t know my skin
until the sun breaks glass, sinks deep like muscle,
and I watch it and it is just the sun, it is not a story,
it is not a sign, and softly slowly it touches (but I feel it now,
I feel it now), and I say yes, I say yes, I say yes.