Wrecked over distances
I stake out the cabin in satellites
but my geography is rainy.
Dear territory: (trembling)
carry him over the abyss,
promise me tenderness.
I tell myself the patchwork quilt
stitches souls into its cosmos.
He vomited three times,
strangling anaphylaxis.
I wonder what ocean smells like
on wind smashing inland.
Tundra comes from Finnish, tunturi,
treeless plain. There is no growing
season in those oscillations.
Twenty years ago I designed
his lungs, expelled to light
breath, and we inhabited one season.
How bloody are days we feel alive.
All of cosmos is a theory.