Dreamsong

Today I wear the horizon
like a necklace.

Cruise ships float into my mouth
I swallow them and they fall

off the edge of the world, playing
show tunes, letting go

of swimming pools
and cocktails, of the pockets

of urine in the bladders

of the crew and the passengers,
all of which might rise

like the contents
of bottles of saline
and the lenses that float within

glass jugs of vinegar tip
their necks
at the table, but don’t pour.

Spit stills in the mouths
of people who are talking
about falling: in love; out of love;

into bottomless wells of debt.
Falling ill, falling deaf, falling silent,

Dreamsong

as the liquid in their inner ears
and the salt of their unshed tears
hangs in space.