In the Archive of Water
The books in the archive of water
fall from shelves like a sink
left running until the well
delved deep in the ground
runs dry. Books—like turtles
stacked upon turtles, a pile
of water-slicked, weed-stuck shells
balancing, bracing to just barely
make the most of sun. Sun on water.
Here, in the archive, I don’t know
how to level the very ground
of being. There’s a power
in my mind like the hook through
the fish. I live like the absence
of water within water, like
the act of falling in a chamber
where falling means, Find me.
Destroy my silver bones.