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When the air is the high water.
Your throat, your spine.
Your nails a-clack and coffin-cut
like the chasing paper’s tines.

When heaven’s middle stills
its clouds full pockets of currents;
The riverbed we can’t escape.
Only anchor’s my horns, my horns 
our roots now.

Horns, promise me, for my parade.
No grave, just currents; no spot
—a Waldo in the bardo—
An orchard, perhaps. The rain calling for bed.
That way I will travel with you.
That way I drowned will sing for you, my call ends

At home with the world.

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[archival] for the curious, these diary entries (and jukebox time capsules) from the same time period in past years:

• ’22 Sometimes you gotta cry
• ’21 My Prerogative (Ahab’s Derangement)
• ’20 King Already
• ’19 Reign O’er Me
• ’18 Imma Persephone Rising