Frame

I slide my fingers
through the vertebrae of fixated air
Conceive a frame and fall through
Chalk white flakes spill, rush in and out
Salt and lather, shrubs and orchards,
sprinkled over muddy knees and calcium ankles
They hang, my paper boat thighs
they hang in mid-air paralysis

A powder cake with vanilla breasts,
I find myself, berries and lingering mountains,
layered and crumpling, moist and weathered,
Memories clap and echo, boxes of voices
round and around
I can hear
I can hear it now
The oldest song
a submarine melody

Frame

I drop
I sink
neck-deep, nimbus head,
wafting flavors of pitched tents and rhythmic ships
Weed and tendrils slash, my knees, my incarcerated throat
Perforated blue cells rise,
enter my lipid cells, swab with gentle iodine
my body, its many identities
I can hear it
My life an aquarium, wayward octopus limbs
I can hear
the threaded voices of a dispersed being
Fate’s quiet whispers
and crystalline liquid eyes