If I could stand on a glass watery surface,
calibrating its depths with heartbeats,
fathoming its leagues with metaphors,
that smell like poppies.
Taste the salt of its winds with opaque lips.

Would I be any closer?

If I could hold back tides with melancholies knees
portaging its breadth with measured sighs,
lamenting its scope in a swell of eyes,
traverse its blue with vigorous buoyant breaths,
calculating with reflection its cold waving spine.

What would I gain to that end?
Would I be any closer?

Does an urchin forget about yesterday?

Everything is castaway drifting towards the sky,
evaporating like blue waves, scurrying,
ascending and descending in tensions
that defy land, defiling the Heavens,
demonstarting with soluble fingers full of
circumstance.

The miles of separation seem like midnight,
cresting with a neverending persistence
against a night full of sky.

The air is swallowed by sanctions,
drowned by unconviction, by mouths,
by its bleached tresses,
by sand that spans day and night
with wicked tongues.

Everything is expanding, surging and rolling,
confined by the silence to which it resides.

Does an urchin remember yesterday?