has it rained yet or have words not yet aspired to themselves
as if this coast was sudden metafiction—
a procreation of breath and my lateral disposition
wasn’t the proclivity of time—
the sun sets widening rings in the water of my bathtub,
the one i no longer own in a city no longer here—
as if i was locked, lackadaisical,
the word we use by daybreak, the first one, the word that breaks
the day into halves of silence followed by sound,
the utterance sequestered by sleep, the day
breaks because antilopes break their horns between each other,
a chipped-blue mug breaks because limestone breaks by breathing
day breaks utterance by folding into halves
the day wasn’t the word that breaks a city no longer here—