Parading

Poets swagger up and down the shore, I’ll bet.

the lotus moon is a lover’s wound

I am summoned by a door

the stony will / swelling into sweetness, the acid

Blood in the dirt, stirred with a finger

A hemisphere is not your hair

The sky, too, like a delicate dress

my blood moves like tectonic plates: so slow

Last night I slept on the floor of the sea

I close my eyes