I burst open there.
I am only air.
But I don't forget him my
curled caterpillar on our bed
in heavy sleep since Monday,
barely a twitch, his body so slowed.
The radiant blues splash and feed me.
I'm a hatchling with beak open snapping
at the sea, it drops into my throat--
that foam and the songs about foam.
But he, he is motionless on the bed.
I wonder what images flash
under those lids while I gorge
on miles and miles of wet and living blue
with two narrow clouds hovering
like eyebrows and the sea all around
splashing me damp and the moon
silver and quiet rising over my brows,
its bright light pouring into my veins
like crack.
But I can't forget him
who lays curled on our bed.
