when i remember my own tipping point.
when you chalk yours up to
a generation’s desolation and clawing for
control. weight. A carrying.
You are underneath, darling, now what
can i do to help? Have a cookie.
Get mad. Madder even. Loose the still.
I became a derelict
—that’s fine, i accept—
by not keeping their ship
afloat. I surrender, you’re asunder.
Oh I must be so powerful.
Even now, I swim the same
sea—yet vast, yet oracle;
skim the surf
while at bottom,
the sands, the deep, and theirs eat
the planks, the convoluted halls,
the mezzanine. A clinic
of leisurely reign.
In so deep you have to remind yourself the water is moving.