more than the dream, i miss the dreaming: the dull grey expanse of illusion
created because reality would destroy me. more than the touch i miss
the grating, sandpaper surety of not touching, of silent enforcement,
how much language is packed into your sighs and the turn of your neck.

in the long green lakes of tennessee it is possible to swim for miles
toward nothing, no horizon, no destination, just forest and ferns 
and cattails and mud, green and black and brown. when allowed to swim
i ducked head and shoulders down immediately for the green silence. 

in abuse there is clarity of self. i cannot explain the world or other people
but i know my bone structure, i know where all the breaks are. i know
my bruise patterns, i know my blood. when finally i am allowed to dream
i duck head and shoulders down into the mud, the black ferment.