The Marring of Dream & Falling Out of Bed or, How to be Grounded



The ground makes sense when it feels less
than infinite, taste of sea (see the peach-fuzz
of a breaking trough) and pineapple.
I learned to sink before I learned
to breathe underwater: cuttlefish
of the carpet (ugly and brittle
when unable to blend in) aching
for the opus of tide.

Call my mother the marsupial
that never let child leave. I was not raised
as a diver, albatross through storm.
Use my wingbones to carve tattoos,
rituals on fickle skin. I feel the dead grass
of her hand whitening the rind of my elbow.
I would rather stretch on the floor:
colossal cetus of land. I finger figure-eights
in a pulsing flume of air above my head.
My tongue burns when I sip space, seasick
of in motion to whist. Lipless clam,
dishonest shell. I’m okay. I’m okay.