this is a rough rough draft.
because i am working on several pieces right now and none of them quite ready to be called done; and yet, needing to ensure the knowledge: i am making something. here is something. i am with my family, in croatia now. that is part of this.
Trying between the mountains sucking back sea to orient myself:
this landscape these warm bodies of rock
here: the lap of the waves here here here
not back home where he played the notes of my ribs
and crept between the stone steps of my vertebrae
turning the knobs in my neck; he played
the notes, humming under his breath
And now, Baka says all good spirits hum, all good men.
It is this act of taking flight I am drawn to. Everything lands
on the water, dirt and bird alike but at night the mountains are
as insignificant as an ant, one black ant
crawling through the house.
And yet, anyone knows where there is one there is another,
thousands below the surface carrying more weight than
fifteen species combined, this fact as dense as a mountain
in the night.
Here between the hot rocks here, I say
knowing it impossible but wanting to think of rocks,
to think of landslides, to acknowledge the bowed sea at my feet
to understand the pressing of rock to spine truly
gathering fistfuls of water to harvest my thirst
knowing the impossible natures of saline and sea to bodies
hoping for landscape greater than self hoping against the fists of gods
cracked palms opening valleys for rivers, barreling headfirst
to dominate land like a mountain at night, silently willing
the erosion of here versus there,
this landscape, these warm bodies of rock shifting
The need to conquer while falling: the nature of rocks and mountain is