saturated

i.
i ask for a drop and a river falls out.

ii.
a wind whistle between rib spaces—
maybe i need room
to breathe so build a
bigger house,
an extra floor like a slanted top hat.
balance

it on my skull.

iii.
learn to walk with
books on my flat head
because knowledge is heavy
because a lifetime is enough to shrink
even giants
because this is longer than you would expect
and tired becomes easier & easier.

iv.
if i open your hands,
could i
fit inside?

v.
swallow
me
whale-mouth.

vi.
i am so sick of the sea,
the ocean only ever
half full.
waiting seems like a slow deadness,
exhibiting twilight,
plum purple stains on
the legs,
i keep walking into the
end of this story only to find it a wall
not a door.

it is the sort of water
where you can only sink.

vii.
these sandbag feet were never good
for anything
except tripping and now,

when a river falls out,

maybe i never knew the meaning of heaviness.

maybe i learn the reality
of roots, of being rooted, of sinking
so deeply that everything merges.
Oh this fear
of losing distinction—
of becoming blended,
blurring into the furniture
and the coastline.

if i don’t want to be
a part of everything—
does that mean i will always be lonely?