To Say I Means Alone

Emma and I drunk     took a bath     swimming as a sloppy fish
on another night that we’d never recall in full detail. Wildness overgrown

enters the spine   turns it from flour to bone.   The photographs
of how she and I moleculed one another lost.    I dive lakes covering the entire

mountain afraid water will dissipate.       Another man means     another bed
means: they see me but don’t see into me, the jaw bone of confessions

waiting for cloud-blue apparitions.         Handing over my fragile objects
to anyone who will take them, air tastes of spit, walnuts and    tobacco barns:

my ribs exposed and far-reaching over the hood of my car, a man on my back.
We are swimming. We are swimming. Nothing stops me.