Ballet and Ocean
When I tried to get right in
there was only more getting into
to do.
Not love. Not the envelope of
embrace.
Like cream I was pushed around
with a spoon
and like a coffee bean I rattled
and sank
although I tried to imagine I was
floating.
Flying. A ballerina is a coat on
the hillside
blowing into trees. The distance
is what the ocean is all about,
a gap we tried to measure.
With something innocuous, you
just
add more of it. It tastes
terrible.
It is Bolshoi, a starfish or gun
barrel.
Electricity and where it dives
under trees.
With a million moving limbs we
can traipse,
turn vermillion. Swim in or stir
the refracted light
we can’t find the source of. A
synapse
