RITUALS

I am swimming swimming swimming finally finally really swimming
tourmaline aquamarine teal peacock emerald sage air underneath the air
the lungs take hold of their own dust the dust of the House dust of mice in the cellar
dust of listening dust of being worried dust on all the things I am moving around
the House to find its order a working moving order a flux no dust underneath water
tourmaline green peacock blue sage silver emerald ink spill billow arm after
arm cupping water cupping what I think I know but know I don’t know really
arm pistoling moving carrying cupping the surface cupping emeralds diamonds pearls
arm after arm second hand on all my broken clocks disappearing into green veridian ink
swimming moving moving flowing swimming floating through tomorrow somehow
finally finally moving flowing throwing arms looking up to the forgotten surface sun
Plato-light through dark oily cul-de-sac nights of fractured lights thrown broken teeth
in my swollen cut up hands trailing pink in the tourmaline water ink
from breaking my own reflections with obstinacy my own teeth crumbled my own
lung dust trailing fingers pink swirls in the water mirror dust of teeth
in charcoal velvet tied with silk silver cord to carry into a different dream
make a necklace a prayer box my lucky rabbit foot my ladder of sorrow
my rosary of stones from the seventh sea my worry beads
my voodoo dolls their houses of worship in one-inch scale their books of science
their tiny mirths, one inch musical scores of dirges for drowned fishermen
too proud of their own lack of catch their wives long hair a nest in their beds of winter
ice sawed in circles to sit in sun of Artic ice for salmon perch mackerel herring sardine
I am swimming swimming swimming moving finally in time though the arms of the clock
flow in a motion blur lining up all my ducks in a row before sleep does not come
to greet the windows that I broke by mistake because I could not find anyone to listen
to the snow hush of my lost song from childhood that I left back in the wrong street
listening to frost the cold slush wind chill out of control the car the pull of one wheel
to the gulley the gap the contrail willowing cloud pillow above while I am swimming
lining all my golden ducks in a row for tomorrow one duck two duck three four ducks seven twelve fourteen thirty-seven, duck A, duck B, duck D, Z, 7, duck of E Minor A Minor
D Minor B flat a line of tiny new ducks shimmering gold in the tourmaline swimming swimming finally really moving in space though no one sees me I pretend to see myself
for a second then another then before tomorrow arm upon arm elbow bent for proper form to cut the water momentum so fluid the song I am lost in twenty-eight years ago
a tiny marble eye an evil eye from Istanbul from my professor who gave me maps of travel
a cup of sea water a residue of dust of salt a film on consciousness I could not pull off
putting my golden lost ducks in a row to flow one after another an army line at the cusp
swimming moving flowing finally skimming the surface of sleep
and not my endless thought.

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