181 292
seven poems
181
everything that buries the past -
ruins of others, the mute slime
without having a way to dredge;
and the flow’s expansion and
our failure to meet. Despite
the great apnea, the immense draining,
wreckages cross and obstructed
the tunnel serpents and surrounds
I should have tried flying
however I lacked balance;
I should have opted for rapture
but I knew no prayers;
I didn’t have the word to save,
the password that consecrates and exonerates;
I had only this body to enter
and an insolent tact to open.