If two-thirds of the day is night, do I spend my life dreaming?
In darkness my actions are slow and light.
You point to where my head should be earth pillow
your finger thrusting in the crater.
A dog is burying drift wood
sand hits sand. (Glass)Marbles on parquet. He hears sand;
he aims for China.
Force and emotion press your voice.
The dog is alone in his dream reaching into the beach for more.
It is sad, you
trying to be right.
I read Simone de Beauvoir I’m doing it wrong.
wish I remembered more from college. I read my travel diary
It doesn’t make sense anymore; I sit with a French dictionary
trying to get my life.
You don’t need to understand everything
Don’t you remember about bliss?
Here is what I know:
If energy and mass are the same and I am seventy percent water
my life is fluid motion.
I am blood and tears.
I am the tide.
I am the air that rushes over the tide
onto the shore.
You are the earth and are not connected to ether
except to live inside of us
the structure of two bodies alone in the night sky.
And sometimes you are a virus molecule
following a predictable path.
I do not touch you. I wash my hands in the sea
the sound of my breath seaspray rising higher with evening tide
follows the moon with no thought as to why.
The moon is in syzygy with you
and the sun. I sit on the moon am weary
not ready for sleep.
There is so much still I have not dreamed.
Haley Lasché is a graduate student at Hamline University and a founding member of West Egg Literati.