a pile of leaving.

the rising sun making shards of this
morning heavy with scattered light

a sigh, an inevitable dizziness
like we've lost our home in the night
or spent it arguing about an absent rib.

you're not convinced
of expirations
suggested sell-by dates
my very breathing.

your elbow in my mouth
has punctured our silence

my eyes have been writing songs again
have been bursting open

don't want to kneel
to this ordinary noise

the rising of the sea

so empty, we float full
of precious things

find our way out of the dirt
onto the dust on the floor.