I’m a peninsula in an ocean
Of salty currents and bloody noses,
And the taste of blueness, brine and roses
Lingers and halts the uvular motion:
It just dangles there, swelling and shrinking,
According to how sick I get—too much!
Sometimes, I want to cut the fleshy string
And release—never feel a single thing:
And flow in space in a time all my own,
And grow in grace, in a bed so lush,
According to how sick I get—too much
For comfort, knowing the rooster has flown:
I dream in so many colors sometimes,
But these visions are ours, hers, his, yours, and time’s.