I’m ready
to rewrite my rope-heavy will into a testament
of pollen.
An unlanguaged sweetness. At rest.
Can you say light licks the dew off your bed?
I do not have to break the water
with my dorsal fin to take a breath. The tongues
of snakes are not interested in me.
My obligation is to the story
of dance and sun.
This is like reading peyote.