The body says lagoon,
and its map of origins 
surfaces in a thicket 

of trees. It says womb,
and fire in the shape 
of a child climbs 

out of the well. A bird
keeps revising the message 
it's been writing  

since the beginning of time:
the dream of endings, clearly
something it doesn't

want to confront. So I will say 
to the body: continue without me,
or lie down in the bluest

hollow of my throat. Press 
your ear to it, and you'll hear 
the rhythmic pull at the oars,  

an endless circling. Otherwise
it is so quiet. So quiet now
that you're the only one here.  

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