[ stir up the silt from my dreams ]

stir up the silt from my dreams. we wound through these waters
rich as the amazon, holy as the ganges, in search of the woman
who eats her own feet. serpentine currents of air whipping
blue and green to foam on your lips as you update your online
status: [ we just saw a jaguar and i don’t mean the car! ]
just as the calluses were beginning to form on my hands you
shouted to me that you think you left the refrigerator door
open. but it’s too late to turn back now, the milk will just
have to spoil, and i imagine the beaded condensation on
the bottle like the sweat on your brow. we hit a rock and
the compass slipped overboard but we never really needed
it anyway. there are so many things that we have but don’t
really need, like that insulated cupholder that you covet
and insisted on putting at the front of the vessel. while
you weren’t looking i threw your iphone into the river.
at the delta of my memory we will toss out the last vestige
of these electronic delusions and the birds will sing of
our search for infinity as we head out towards the sea.


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