I slipped my hands in the cold salt froth
of the Pacific Ocean just two days ago. Planet-like
and everything aquatic, even the sky, where an eagle
unfolded so much larger than my shadow.
I was struck translucent. A good look for me!
My hands were slick with the water I was born next to,
and there was a whole hour that I felt lived in, like a room.
I wish to be untethered and tethered all at once, my skin
singes the sheets and there’s a tremor in the marrow.
On the way back to the city, a sign read:
Boneless, Heartless, Binge-Worthy.
Next to it was a fuzzy photograph of a jellyfish.
Imagine the body free of its anchors,
a locomotion propelling us, pulse by pulse,
but here I am: the slow caboose of clumsy effort.
When the magician’s wife died, how could they be sure
he hadn’t just turned her into ether, released her
like a white bird begging for the sky outside the cage?
Creeley says, The plan is the body. What if he’s wrong?
I am always in too many worlds, sand sifting through my hands,
another me speeding through the air, another me waving
from a train window watching you
waving from a train window watching me.