Am I the world if you’re holding me,
my via negativa trying not to bloom inside you?
I am your difficulty imagining this.
I leave you stranded in your own thoughts.
Whatever you thought I’d been
           keeping

from you,
     nettles you need gloves to handle
transposed into your body,
          under your
belly’s birdskin.
       Before you left, I packed
a jar with
     want you think must be for flesh
for you to open far above the undreaming
creatures of the sea.
             You mustn’t
try to save the drowning.