budding.

sycamore leaves and sea sponges.
i m out of it again today
as if that could explain anything
crushed limes, bruised mint, muddled

it is fitting that i secrete
sea sponges inside me
although i am scared they will divide
and replicate wihtout my knowledge
and i become dessicant
the sea- i cannot forsake
the sound of the waves
i could take you to mongolia
and do nothing but end
up sick with longing

or i could sleep by the waterside
like i have so many times before
and wear salt water like a cloak

it was beautiful – the Atlantic, the
sunset, the man/boy in his red trunks
knee-deep in the water, watching the
pink and purple sky. i did not swim
that day but went shoulderdeep, the sea
kissing the nape of my
neck, the sun
having already slipped did not give any
warmth like it had two days past
when we had drifted with the current

i am a scion; graft me
to your stock.