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.