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.