Like I've hung a stuck halo around everything: the edges of me shimmering into the bedspread, the shard of lawn under the window blind turned to one fantastic green smile. It isn't just that. It's what the sea's become, the smell so sharp in my lungs I'd swear it had a body, and hands, and all the air in me clutched in them. It's the house burning down the street and the alarms searing the air, a sound that is in me now, or a scar of it.
I wish there were a way to say it that isn't in terms of God, but there isn't. Each day is a resurrection now: waking, I drift this thought of you across my empty room, a seeking quartz summoning the world back. I wake up hungry, but I am sure that there's a gill in me somewhere that will feed me on all this, if I let it only stream in like water.
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