wednesday morning

Under a sticky leftover winter this morning is no different
pubescent buds laugh at our combined age
that truck with the gardeners slowed way down
the buds kept laughing
why drinking is a good idea
feeling stoned like you imagine it used to be
I remember my geology teacher with his pink skin
him showing us the abyssal plain
a slightly sloping, very flat ocean floor
and underneath its entire flat weight I am there, gone.

How many times will I think of that place
its smooth white horizon and its breathing beat
under the gallons, swollen waves
a half eaten pirate body and just the motion
sinking like a stone again into the salt

What good was it
the guilty notion that I could have swam away
when all i ever wanted was to be dragged as if a grey whale would prefer to tie me up and go
I think of the salt going in and out of my throat, clearing the way for more
I think of not being able to open my eyes, but still trying
and, yes, eventually being tossed ashore

Waking up next to the bird, the oldest bird
who tells me a secret and asks me seven questions
who picks the strands of flotsam from my tangled hair
who sits near my drying skin and sings back to the sea
who only loves me because I have arrived here

A new horizon, now sand and sand
dried up and salty sweat sticks to my hands
and i think of the existence of baryonic dark matter
how I'm not sure I care anymore, the start
the big smashing, crashing celebration

Steal the old birds feathers and make a bed
against the sand and the dark matter
climb in the back of the gardener's truck
smell the fresh dirt and bulbs
honey, I want you, comes out of his radio
but he can't hear the radio, only I can

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