the origin cosmos
think of the universe and then jump over it
I entered consciousness
already wet.
Wet is wet.
Dry, dry.
Memory
belonging to water
in the womb,
the origin cosmos.
The sea
has never claimed
to own
a single wave.
Yet I,
each storm,
for myself.
The water
inside me
still believing
it has gills.
Identity
the brief confidence
of a raindrop
as it ponders
the invention
of falling
and
singularity.
Tomorrow,
I'll wake
as a symphony
of wind instruments.
A choice
between
nothing
and nothing.
The ocean
making
both.
