self

blanket like a boat on grass like a river, near a river but not in it. Watching the river. Bridge like a crossroads and a phone call. Calling someone. Calling for help or for sex or for inspiration. Calling across the turn of the tide.

We speak on the phone which is a new thing. I dream of telephone booths lit up in the night and a creek that is mostly rocks that must be crawled over. You dream of deep water, all that stuff you are sitting on, fathoms of it.

The ocean spills out of my mouth and all that is left is a trickle and a slither over shale. I have been here before. I have dreamed this before. Barely wet. As always. Often. There was that one time. There was that once but that is way over. I am way over it. See now it would be better. The irony. Now when my river has drained out to a tiny spill it would be better. Laugh. hahaha like the young folk say on their status updates. hahaha.