I like them sturdy;
I like them warm.
I like it when they end up writing my body an all-brand new song:
this is what it means to be so very right about being wrong.
Anything and everything feels that good
when it goes on for this long.
How many years have you been waiting
to feel the harness chafe
along your shores?
Raise the ridgelines high.
Let my fingers build themselves a new place to lie
fallow, and sunken, and curled up in the lagoon:
the place where the land and the sea meet the moon
in full frontal view. This is where the scrum begins, at high noon ---
now nobody can claim that they were never informed,
That the notices came far too soon.
I also, do the same;
anyone who has come close will tell you
that I am absolutely all of every hurricane's inner monsoon.
Torrential, ravenous, and drenchingly, coolingly new.
The pillars of my house sometimes
are very roughly hewn
but they still stand, and for so many years, indeed, they have stood
tall against your disgust, your reframing, your sense that somehow,
any of this is unjust:
I think you, too, need to hear what I must
give, in full and unelidable trust,
as long as you are individuated and above
water, as long as your trauma is being ground to dust:
oh, you have all of my consent
for those hands of yours
to prepare me
for the rush.
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