She has watched herself move beyond sad
into the realm of desperation,
where her need snarls against his.
She has moved beyond remembering
her former necessities:
mid-afternoons framed in poetry,
gardenia air and tousled
half-finished sentences grabbing.
Now there is only the scramble
for new ground. Time short,
her unspoken depths
slowly being filled up.
Like a sea lion who dives
into her familiar pool,
to find the clutter
of someone else's world
fast descending, muting her waves,
the rubber tire, plastic pipe, diaper, old shoe.
At first something she can swim through,
then around, then day by day
around is all there is.
Gone the clear blue.
Gone the clear blue.
