letter to myself

6 November 2024

wringing the self out sleep the way an
   anemone pulls itself out of the filter in its tank
have you seen that? Those videos? A living thing
pressing flat
tendrils prying out from the grille one
   after another
sluicing liquid from the hollow of its body
free, at painful last.

The sleep I mention isn't rest;
   waving limp in the current,
   flecks of skin and dust floating.
Here are things that ring gemini:
- holding your breath until it fuzzes hush in your skull
- the bed tilting away beneath you in the cusp of sleep
- winding your fingers around brick wall resistance until the hungering ache peels out from your knuckles and your elbows
- doing nothing at all.

so now awake, with feet still in ankle-
   deep puddles of sucking hesitance.
And lapping at your calves many tongues
many anemone torn themselves open on the sand
many songbirds' brittle beaks

Watching the tide ease down. Watching
   it wash back up after all
over the tops of the feet.
   The shins and knees