I stood
on the Northern tip of my continent;
and you
on the Souther tip of yours,
as if they were rafts,
floating apart just faster
than we could swim.
My subconscious mantra
(begging all my life:
please, please, please)
lifted leaded feet
and I dove, sinking
like rotten wood.
But the mind is simply
the empty center of
a matryoshka.
So now my
heart of gold
is somewhere
(please, please, please)
and my empty mind
is nowhere
and just for a moment
the futility of my tragedy strikes me:
that even my pain is limited
by my capacity to recall
(please, please please)
and even priorities dissolve
as I sleep.