The Sinking

You are
now only
an equation.  You are
the weight of your body
exaggerated,
the weight of your dress,
wet. You are the salinity
of the water
confronting the temperature
of the air.  You are
the temperature itself
(not the word
for it, not
the idea, but)
the actual feel
of vapor given
a set
of conditions.

You are
heavy...

Your heart like lead,
dead in the cavity,
is sinking.  The black
ink of the ocean
enveloping you.
Time standing still,
at attention,
at the edge of the world.
11:55

This is
a broken clock
a silenced organ,
still standing
a steeple of crumbling stone:
after the war
the watch's face
wrinkled in doubt
begins to sag.
Dali begins
to dream.

One wave
will reduce you
to the rubble you leave
behind.  One wave,
your fingers are blue roses
that may bloom
a final time
as you slip beneath the surface.
One wave
one breath
one last tattered tongue
wagging.

Words,
unheard,
unspoken
are broken
(like ancient pottery)
on the ocean

floor.