And what hides in the new-moon dark, how
what matters most is what I don’t see- energy,
the ninety-nine-point nine percent emptiness

of me. I confess I thought there was more
to water, to this journey, and how we loop time
through the fabric of our lungs, tuck it into

the sensuous curves of the brain. I confess
to the claustrophobia of a bodice, and sleeves
too tight to remove. I admit, however fearful

I’ll construct each house I inhabit with more
doors, and like my grandfather, go from twelve
to fourteen on my planner. Even as I near

the event horizon, I’ll still be running
from window after window after window.