the receptive / earth


for now, blue nights, bourbon in the tall slender bottle, the chipped sailor blue color of the dentist's steps. she walks home along the canal and watches the water duck and hollow, pitch and froth, murmur and seep. he has left the apartment to go and collect bird song. she is bitter, spiteful and her dresser spews forth a host of thermal shirts, tight enough and loose enough to hide her breasts. there are so many names she's listed. lato: summer in polish (it will be summer), onada: wave in catalan (there will be rain and a longer growing season once west and then south), selalu (always in indonesian), yarrow is yarrow in many languages, savi is sage in catalan, again, bahari is sea in swahili, zora, dawn in croation, sempre, always in catalan, galician and italian- and this she likes best. she is full with child. that does not mean that there still aren't wave like separations between her crested body and my fallen songs. why don't i make music? or ride a bicycle? why collapse in the hallway or beneath the persistent shower in the narrow cubicle? why name names? polish anything? she walks along the creek. she has only water, blue, pale orange and faint lavender pills inside of her. her heart, by now, must look somewhere between a lotus and a sea barnacle. she'll draw it, quickly, in the margin, so as not to not think of it again. ----------------------------------------------