Water touched water through my heart.
I fell into a white tangle of octopus,
fluttering for air, one molecule, one second ...
something ghosted across my brain, fiber
or seeds rising on the black negative.
Then I fled into whales, into thread-fine
fish where I ate muscle from my own bones,
into the conch, believing I was a sea.
As a sea anemone, prehensile, I waved
tentacles in the dark; crept with snails,
frightened of the impulse snapping
whatever-I-was into eels, minnows, bones,
into coins stamped with bees, into memory.
The membranes weren't sealed. I escaped—
light or energy—through mysterious windows.
Rents appeared in my insane fabric,
I'd tumble out of shape into other edges,
the cliff of my own dreams looming blue
in the shark's thrust for the swimmer.