The crabs bury and birds cry,
but they don’t know about the parasites,
the incest,
the illness above and below,
the way it never changes.
When a beaver builds a dam
and the water stops flowing,
he can rest.
Even among stillness,
I lay awake, I keep stumbling,
I still hear it flooding.
Life keeps happening,
and even on dry land, I drown
in the arms of perseveration.
Perseveration, perseveration– a sinkhole where
everyone else can forgive
but I was never angry.
Water tastes so bitter in the lungs,
but only an angry person would spit it out.
I hold it down.
I asphyxiate, I turn a fine shade of blue,
and the theory remains, that
life keeps happening.