Thursday, September 24, 2015

At the seashore

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.