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Here, ours is a kind of prism:

bursting into inchoate rainbow drag,

the colours rioting against us

while we pool at the feet of each other,

perfecting the art of surrender
 


Outside, rain puts the pavement to

sleep, the humid air frothing at our necks;

tiny lives perpetuating things I cannot hold

and wouldn't wish to. One life is enough.

My mind folds in on itself, churning.
 


I spin my thoughts in doorways, rooms

that seem to breathe by omission. 

The water rushes in through the windows,

an inch or an ocean; my eyes tessellate

the negative space into dreams of seafoam
 

and sediment.

What God holds the sea
 from
felling our bodies into separation?

Eyes lap fresh light spilled from the cracks

of the windowsill. 

Sometimes doesn't it feel
 like the whole world is gasping for air?
 


Against the house the scent is green and

unforgiving, the tapestry of everything shaking

off its own dew. I know it is laughing at me.

As if you could split a thing away from itself,

an inch and an ocean, alive in the same breath.  
 
 
 
 
 

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