This is never far
from the tip
of my tongue:
I would do anything
to keep myself
from dissolving.
But perhaps this
is wrong.
Perhaps bliss,
as we know it,
is the feeling
of being
tossed—
a warm lozenge,
pink
and sweet,
lost to the gray heart
of a cool salty sea.
*
Lately, I love
to catch myself
being in the wrong.
As if
winding up
naked in a bad dream
were proof-
positive:
any narrative
which recurs
is controllable—
can be
soothing.
