when sailing turned to drowning

you are an ocean. but
you are made of bricks
there is no point denying this

I’m washed on the beach 
and your tide
relentless.

I, of course, should be grateful
I’m too far south and inland
I’m lakefront property
I don’t make the news.

there is no point is searching
the concepts of hidden closets
or poems without sonnets
or aches without causes
for a wavering love without
absolution or solace

no comfort in finding
myself in arms that have turned
fuzzy and warm for something
sweet and cold and soft 
from grapes centuries old
no point in reminding you
what you remembered to forget
and what you call out still
by names as old as the sea
and familiar as the sides of
seven continents
who won’t meet again 

aurouras are illusions
lights in the sky
my mind is full of explosions
they leak out my eyes and fingers
my mouth and soul
sweet wine between 
my shaking thighs

but at the end I am a pleasant hum
and easy to ignore.

trees fall down every day, I am sure
there are no reasons why.

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when sailing turned to drowning

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