Our shoreline speaks of night; we can’t hear it but we can see its mouth move.
                                             I am at the ready for god, but let’s be honest.
I gloss over the jetty, watch a seaflower hold its breath between the rock;
             I hold my breath to move between the veil.
                                           Miracles, we sing.
Death only happens to the living;            even the quietest corners
              pale away. We grope at rooms of mirrors, through tufts of flora,
                               for the rose of Jericho. Let me tumble to resurrection &
              stop me from sleeping all day. I have barely seen the sun. I won’t wake up
                            until I have forgotten the scent of absence. There is an obscene goneness
            in my palms.
Somewhere on land we dirge through the malaise. I am nothing
             more than a girl who cries on balconies
at this point      at this point I am nothing more than the balcony.
               I gaze at the petals; they gaze at my wound.
I’m so wound-bound.      I’m so lost to the vanity
                of staying. Stay. (more…)