By abandonment. Then the sky withdraws waving. Train as you like,
every long-distance swimmer gets lazy. Horizon? try infarction,
belly knot, ganglion. Believe me, there's a whole thesaurus
for denied. From sea, the bad credit friend who weeks ago
threatened now has arrived, and it is as we thought: the inevitable
black after light and not at all funny. Still, we bring forth
funeral meats, green air, salt gull, a sphere of descent like wind
on greed, a libido of will, i.e., the recursion of everything, because
my sweet, passion is a basin of misery lapped by the dog of links.
I mean, here we are, left in this mirror where each stratum
thins to a small beach shell. It's not the height from which
the body gets dropped, not hypothermia or exsanguination.
Not faith nor its mordant twin, Wait! (glam amphibian
in peridot scales)—the fact is, you can't really swim in the ocean.