Sometimes I live in the past tense,
all jellyfish tentacles that drag
slimy knuckles in dead silence
along the bottom
through the language of bones.
If I could start to undrown and breathe
life into unswallowed chunks
of moon, maybe the shimmer
of proper nouns might fade a little.
Maybe the future might float
to the surface and the flesh
might enliven until longing fades
in the waters of the dead.
And what follows could be dead
calm, a time where I can pretend
to watch birds and sing
only bright verbs.