We list sideways in the open boat,
dreams, like scabs descend upon open wounds.
Wicker is the sound it makes when you stand up,
when you’re told to sit back down. Without
a shirt, you’re sucking drops of moisture from
a rag.
When the cage is upon you, when the ground
is melting into a rocking pool,
when tall blades of wild grass make your shins
seep thin laces of blood.
The moon is not an afterthought, then.
And you’re still feral, running naked,
and listing.


Listen to a recording of this poem here: