You are lost in a sea of cells. They claim it is a pool, something tame, navigable.
That this aquatic fledging is natural. That if you are sinking, it is only between surfaces
like depth, too, is stretched between shores.
You better swim like the tide.
Like waves are the arms of giant swimmers, like each time you
spear your hand, whetted to a point, through the sea's skin then make it dull,
blunt, wide, scrape your bound fingers through the congested flesh below,
you are pulling at a thread that will unravel the world.
You sift through the woven undercurrents. The hissing brush
drowned sailors gave a name and then tried to fuck. Your
round mouth like a sun that rises and sets the same horizon.
And the current combs through knots of seaweed and rusts the medieval joints of crabs.
You move through the sea inside:
in the profound narcissism of your self-containment.
The canals of your body overcrowded and your lungs flared like seaside parasols.
Yet, this is home. And if you hate it, then it is because you can find some joy
in knowing it is yours.
And if it spirals out of control like a sea shell that has forgotten when to end,
there will be a profound beauty to it.
It will all be very much like that dream
you could never forget, the one where you watched from the switchback of the stairwell
your guest, a man with infinite coats, getting ready to leave.