the dream within a dream


i say tar. the words do not come easy tonight. 
i say sea. & i find myself overflowing.
you, the raft. the salt. the sun. the land i ache to spill upon. 
i say curve all light until it reaches you. fill you full. 
i say shadow is another form of movement.
i want to shadow move with you. i see wholeness. 
& i say gold. i see richness. & i say moon. 

& i say. all of you. with all of me. & i am so full. 
& i see. all of you. with all of me. & i am so full. 

i say tar. the words do not come easy this morning. 
you say sea. & i am overflowing.



i’m talking stage four, spreading to other organs. bone marrow, blood clots, in the sink, all over my floor. i'm talking bottling days up in liquid form, saving them up for later and then chugging them down well past their expiry date. too late. too late. i’m talking bluer than blue, but still not blue enough. the smell of bleach, how i am always scrubbing something or the other. i watch you in sunlight, not moving, not saying anything. what is a lighthouse without the light—a form breeding darkness. crash onto my shores, hello: broken rest, flittered sleep, sunflower stalk heavy, word association: van gogh—yellow, but the type of sadness that is spilled over, rubbed into. walk all over me, faded carpet, i am all knees. not quite the storm yet, but we’re in it though. i feel the stench of another lifetime—drilling a hole into me, nailing a finger, posting a letter; dog-eared—i am bitten, the moon she is for me, i understand now what it means.


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Poetry is my form of therapy, for this reason I don’t think I’ll ever be able to give it up.