The sea at night yawns at the full moon
The sea at day does not cave for white flowers
The sea at dusk didn’t die young so it must die old
The sea at dawn scratches broadway neon out of its night beard
The sea at noon strokes my face and calls it a lovely day
The sea at three is an anxious puddle suspended before the bus stop
The sea at rest fidgets as soon as her eyes close
The sea awake gets a tummy ache as her lips seal around another espresso
The sea in bed cannot look everyone in the eyes
The sea in the morning kisses me with coffee ice cream morning breath
We’ve talked about hiding in secret
mountains, but you can’t take it
with you. There’s been so much
in listlessness that we forgot what
the sun felt like, so we gather seeds
to plant that ache in the sky
and wake up with the walls lit
like July. We could drink the moon
in a pinch, we could make it rainier
if we passed on the occasion
to banter with the complacent.
I’m not sure the cost of this secret mountain
but I have buried myself in its snow
and will thaw only when I believe
I can crawl out through its heart.
I looked out the window
and saw myself
coming back, despite worlds
beneath me that I can’t
name but long to journey to.
What will I take?
Arrows. The quivering
proclivities to bury myself
in a briar. Dwelling
on the blackness
that is punctuated still
by stars. Turning the heat
to melt alternate futures
into the air. But I will return.
Buried in the mud of the East River
are my great and small distractions;
by shifting rejuvenation a few blocks
I can listen to Manhattan awaken
in the snow. After writing letters
to the moon, drop off to sleep and build
a bridge with breathing; then the weather
changes and you’re separating the walls.
It’s last call in the cities of my memory,
and you are an instant of happy
incapable of time but never missing
an appointment to haggle for my bones.