April 30th

Those things we did
in submarines
In chilly water in my dreams.

I've considered how coriander
rough and rich sprouts
into cilantro and have determined
that all things sharp and roasted were once red and wrinkled
and inevitably turn
again soft
again hairless.

And so the frigate like carved
soapstone rests
on the ocean's low waist
and is movement and steam within,
tumbling.

In our submarine
we are the world's belt buckle. We'll crumble
down, tickling the navel.

Wailing and swallowing
I hope we plant ourself into the earth's red wrinkle, roast in steam
until
giving up our cracked shell
we are once more soft,
once more fearless.