Forward bends down
in the gravity of an echo
I escape every year,

when April falls for June
to no end, but over again
in a drown, her gasp,
our cold tide
makes sand of all faults,
moves in without asking.

I sleep in a bed now
on a blister with a birthday.

It all comes around.
I can hear it,
but it doesn't get any closer.

My ears stayed down there
with their wanting, without me.
They won’t listen
but for an obvious confession.

Is this it?
Is this?

I let them lip their writhing
and ration my memory.

It's okay to fall apart
from myself, quietly.
I heard it somewhere.

I've never held such a secret
as my own hands, open, full.
I haven't learned yet
what I am to do next:
move out, fall in,
over and over
to what end.

04/23/2020

Posted on 04/24/2020
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen