always

we always go to the bottom
of the sea and air


a long time ago
began the jour
ney
it was like that
key
to heart

heading by waves
rushed overhead

sea roaring with its wilting waves

then lost my memory
that voyage was a terrible
with the briny water all about

clutching tearing its stelae its steeled fingers
hooped into my guts ~

what was the roar of the poet then?

O

was it air breathed
the death dark night

of repetition and its seven sons


her daughter

waved to me from over the briny deep
a thousand thousand leagues from me her arms

waving about me ~