the whale doesn’t move // the sea fills its stomach // with things that cannot sing

Coarse sheets, rose quartz on an altar. None of this belongs to me. / Rain softens everything outside, white flowers become foam. / You cleaned yourself with my shirt.

A mattress can be a kind of desert. / Mine, a drought— / 40 days without softness.

Much to consider. / Foam in /
the hot, deep bath kisses my bitten nails.

I will not die, I promise you this. Even if the bruise /
turns blue and creates a pretty palace on my skin, on the other side /
of that flesh wall I am becoming my own best man.

But, /
somewhere: dawn and the hum of hollowing /
seeds planted in dry weather, like a sigh /
or shout or song for when the sky /
breaks open and gives out /
something kinder than light.