The Bounding Main of Your Mind
Your feelings lie down on a moth-worn blanket
like a farm dog.
The weather gives you
a sense of purpose and your spleen is the sieve
that filters out the tar in the world, so you hide
out in the seascape of your brain: the briny deep
beneath, the undulating lift of water,
the soundless pressure;
the octopus in your heart unfurls a map
to another ocean, another ocean
endless, or unending: the swim is tireless,
your tentacles taut
when you heap your body
into the chewed bed
littered with stale hay, sunshine;
nothing is racked
into neat bales.
It took thirty five years
to get slick. Or did it?
Your brain, the sea;
your nerves, the dust mote.
Now you taste the salt in everything.
You could quit.
You could keep going.