You sibilant sussurus
Surfacing speciously,
Suggesting simple solutions
To all my problems,
Which mostly look
Like big black Sharpie strokes
Slashing ineffectually
At the waves of a saltwater ocean:
I float between the crests
A million miles from everything
And right inside where you are--
Come back.
To make a moment
Requires two motions meeting,
And I can't do this on my own.
Let's not wake up--
Reality doesn't taste like this
(Rain on my lips,
If it were spring and not winter)
And I think that maybe thinking
Cuts the soul out of the movement.
(Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?
--I'm not sure. I'm not here.)
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