One bar
Early morning: First response: it slips through my fingers.
To the Tide still asleep in my sheets: mareada, whispered in a drop, in his ear. As if the misted mar
had seeped into my skin and now wanted to carve a new stream beneath it.
3 minutes: pretending a distraction could exist from the bars.
I forgave the mother of the mother of the mother of the mother of the mother of my
mother in less time than those 3 minutes.
Broke every curse of misconceptions — not thinking — of course it couldn’t be that —
and yet
No conception.
Still.
I’ll come find you where oceans meet.
Note: « mareada » means nauseous in Spanish and « mar » means the sea
