how this is going
to go—
it's another
"I would do anything
to stop me
from dissolving" poem.
Perhaps, though, we've
both got the premise
all wrong;
perhaps bliss
(if we're able
to fractionally grow it)
is the feeling
a throat lozenge feels
when it's tossed
off a boat
in a tempest
for being
the wrong kind
of soothing
as it melts
and melds
completely with
the force that is
the sea.
