..
...
--I'm not gasping May--
In showing me the way to [reverberate] an echo,
I see-- must extinguish wild fruit from mouth
before you say I am ripe enough
to bear word--as if it should be heavy in my gut,
or is hidden in the confines of a cockle shell's spiral;
all shapes distant from touch, hard to fathom
in bulging pancreata.
------------------------------------------------------
It's dew May. My fallopian tubes are pregnant empties
twisting smiles; a somersault or two--still
rolling in your impossible numbers,
call collect just to hear the salt.
---------------------------------------
I decide to move to the ocean where resound is mute;
I do not have to gasp like a beached Asian carp,
or fat rolling off bone--
...................................to its endearing thumps.
------------------------------
Dickinson would appreciate
these staccato waves,
and offer me to the silent word--
her imperfect deities.