Now to chart a way
of skinning waves,
to throw spray
pink inside a rising moon.
Now to slice beneath the bloom
of blue
and caesura from a curled
womb.
Now to be sewn in foam
and still to breathe,
to be a tongue
for slitting swells and breaks.
Now to whisper
too long into the fetch until
no breath left. Now
to feel the last pulse in a set
carve names across my back
in dim and brackish light.
Now to stitch across
all my definitions of drown.
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