The dark ocean is pushing towards your bottom.
were all of me
its fragile boats, said naming
what awaits in the gaps
crouched at the expense of meaning.
Was I the substance of your weakness
flooded
foam wound tight rope to imprison or servile
pain
loose from the moorings that waves are
as if they were tiny and dead fish? Would you know
float in the large surface, or
face, behind the dim
chagrin
broken mirrors,
fixed with certainty and wisdom of the executioner
at the ends of the tree? Would
after
find some way back
where
nothing you can give back, or take?
Would we have a remnant of that
air in the cells of the lung petrified
or so, without more, a passage of time
vain pure
leave us, cyanotic, and links
discontinuous along a groove
which will be erased, as the brand slowly
water on the banks?
doubt. I do not know.
The sea, as love
love
is always dark.
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