Too long have my eyes been
salt‑wells,
each dawn a wound, each moon
a mask of grief,
each sun a bitter chalice
poured upon my tongue.
Love, sharp as a spear,
has swollen me
where languor daggers
the marrow.
O let the keel of my soul crack,
let me founder
in the abyssal mush,
to be swallowed whole
by the fathoms
where silence is
my only hymn.
.