I have a thirsty fish in me
that can never find enough
of what it's thirsty for.
Show me the way to the ocean.
Break these half-measures,
these small containers.
Let my house be drowned in the wave
that rose last night out of the courtyard
hidden in the center of my chest.
The harvest I expected was washed away.
But no matter.
A fire has risen above my tombstone hat.
I don't want learning, or dignity,
I want this music and this dawn
and the warmth of your cheek against mine.
The grief-armies assemble,
but I'm not going with them.
This is how it always is
when I finish a poem.
A great silence overcomes me,
and I wonder why I ever thought
to use language.