In Transit

and a secret-
you can dance this alone;
you, the moon,
ebb and pull-
the tide smeared across your shoulders
white-hot with rain:

like fine-tuning a car,
check engine light on
in the itching across your scalp and

a sensation of volcanic depth.

in absentia they have been digging
tunnels into the damp earth of your flesh,
burrow-warm and bitter-salt

caught returning to the scene with a
mouth full of milk.

in the dark caking of thick blood turning
in-to-out
the body says: more.
do it again.

but:

i am
out of the office with
nothing to say about the whole ordeal.
on vacation from my becoming,
in a different poem:

nothing, nothing,
nothing again.

let someone else say it.