what you want when you look away
is to be tired of being sad. Am I pretending
to be you to see if you were still there—
                 a dark sea
the Zebra dove, eyes of an arctic krill,
skin flora in the hound’s-tooth blazer,
myself, viscera, myself, flora?
          If you’re still here,
I listen to you take yourself apart:
primitive eyes then photoreceptive skin
then
  profane earth singing
           then
            not enough
then
  green, unripe blueberries
            then
               abyssal plain.
You being in the world should mean
I can stop trying to put you together again
because you aren’t the moon sometimes
& I couldn’t remember
         how to love you then.