While You Sleep I’ll Be Out Wandering

We seize our course, set the sheets in the forenoon to billow,
carrying our nude bodies into the night and knotted
long into the roaring morn this ship beaches, slips
onto sandy alogicalness, tips
top heavy into weightlessness, oft to drift –
each other is a fool – building our mountains
on bogs and marshes set to sink
into the largest organ wailing from the denervate
healers had us sip to alleviate the sounds,
calling loins that shook us from our hollow sleeps,
laid us into one another, sowed us up,
had us walk around, eat, sleep, work, love, talk
for ten thousands miles, we rode the pressing tongues
of one another, until the life eked out,
Lover, didn’t I tell you that I have no eye
that does not find itself in listlessness, who in the darkness
marries a fox in the deep dene, strokes her legs
into the river, presses her lips against the roots of the
youngest tree and freely bleeds
down onto the stamen’s head, divorces the fox and so weds
the arm of a creature who dies at first snow;
I am not sorry that I roam.
I am not sorry that you are not my home.

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