Wednesday, March 4, 2009

myoclonic twitch

Today I've said "I'm sorry" approximately four times
and I've said "thank you" about the same.
I made my bed with the spreadsheets
of these equivocations as long as you knew me
and never asked what they felt like to sleep on.

There's a quiet grace to the
delineation of your skin
that i understand now.

It is as if I am on the ocean, the spar
of my shoulders
the bent planks of ribs
variously firm and pliable
altogether my best attempt at sturdiness.

It's been long enough to say
there's nothing left,
and there isn't.
I would have given us to gulls

but there are things under the surface, less well-understood
that erase more completely. This is morbid
and i didn't want that. So? So

there's a place in this for gulls,
their raucous garbage.
There's a place here for your skin
where the salt clamors in my hands,
and my eyes blink and blink
and open, and see the same ceiling. It's even
simple--that when there's nothing left,
no purchase for hungry mouths,
and we don't owe anything, still
I remember how you came
a buoyant, necessary thing
pushing me up out of the shipwreck.

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