//I am so sick of this container, it must be said—

I am the moon in all corners, 


creating tides,

emotionally—within myself

outside myself

in the cracks of San Andreas,

a circumstance of rainbows grayed with the coming of night—

Even when the moon waxes

I am always FULL

I am a circumference of laughter 

and a handful of substance 

to keep your hands prosperous

to keep your fingers agile

in case broken bones

introduce their bent—

I am encased into a casket of compressed organs

You are the same, with a different name

no sense in thinking otherwise

no sense in astrological acceptance 

when all we will become is everything that ever was//

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