it's coming up slowly
quick in the cold, then
angry little lungs spasm
(& it's like)
cables snapping and lashing
the deck below, towers pulling
toward each other to kiss in the middle
on the hood of a car.
it's like romance:
that whispering tiny thing children claim they can see
that unholy fucking that consecrates sheets and piles of brittle leaves.
Says "don't drown"
But there isn't any water here.
Only grit and cracked tile bits--
Drying paint and grass growing around
Ankles threatening to break at any moment
tiptoeing through these eggshells.
those lake eyes
i was down there
sloshing
i was tramping around
frog skin and tiny bones mashed between my toes--
it's frigid cold
the crabgrass feels like walking through razorflowers
on my purpled pale looking feet
and just
those lake eyes
they seemed sunshiney from a distance and
the cat tails don't just grow around the water
they've invaded it
so that there's an itch and some ugly redness around the rims
fish around their stalks at the bottom
and those damn lake eyes
I just couldn't climb out.