I thought often I was mischained, fled from myself, even in the upside-down

ship shape of a drafty cathedral, shaking some stranger's dead-bird hand.

All that wasted thought. I began by typing the word sea. And the mote that fragmented

me, hollow chords of your particular parts, rustling away layers, tolerance, calm habits—

well I didn’t know I hated until the sound struck, the triangle of your shoulders

and chest; longing cannot go on forever, can it? Can it? More or less

I circled back, fed my mind instead with ruffled hawk’s legs and powder pigments.