Poetry

when he’s gone there is no trace when he’s near I can’t find him I lose him all over the place he prefers it that way a scent is the clue that someone else traced the edges of me —touch otherwise invisible to an eye, naked or blind a scent

It’s difficult to be an ocean, all the things you have to contain: the roiling currents, going this way and that the many creatures, miraculous and terrifying some real and some not. And there you are, in the midst of it, a watery matrix inbetween and around and containing everything