and more sea
i can see how these things work together, in this new moon where the things that contain water are sealed tightly, where higher thought and desire work together in a forward and backward motion that replicate the motions of waves, of the tides beneath the skin, and the dances of bodies between sheets of white cloth, and from a distance i can see the patterns on the sheets that make numbers to mark bodies for the course of the coursing of these bodies over the year ahead, and from a closer distance i see the colors of skin that try to weave together when they are desperate for real heat, and from a closer distance still i see the skin glow with a breathing that wants to want the things that teach us how to swim in the oceans of the world. if i were tired of heat i would hide from the sun, if i were tired of water i would come in from the rain, and if i were tired of endurance i would stay home and enjoy the weekend doing nice things around the house, but i'm not tired any more. there is a constant moving in all the quiet rooms of all the quiet houses i sleep in, and flashes of canine teeth that ring in the dark like bells, i won't be sleeping for a very long time. i can do this, the first part is always a test of mettle to see if i can stay in my own skin without trying to freeze it so it breaks off, and the second part is learning how to add a little more gracefulness to the motions, and the third part will make you crazy in the dark. i want to read the numbers on your skin, like they were my favorite parts of my favorite book, and go back and reread them way past the point where the pulse points are memorized. i want to find you in the cave by the sea, making tracks on rocks for me to find the next morning, not because it will tell me that you are thinking about me, but because the tracks might tell me that the rocking of the sea is in your head and working its way under your skin. this is the way the nervous birds in my chest turn into seagulls, moving my blood to a place that's close and so impossibly far away. i could make numbers for all the kind of longing and draw them on your neck with the feathers that i pull from my throat, and make up stories about impossible things that wolves wish for when they are circling at my feet, but the only thing impossible is the way they seem to know how to fold months together, so that this moment merges with that one, and the conversation yesterday comes back with the feeling of your ribs under my fingers, but the months move like waves, they flow forward, songs in time, songs on skin, and they roar in my ears, making turns and decisions and choose all the right boots from all the right shops, marching forward as if it were a war, as if it were not a war, and none of this is far away at all, not far off at all.