The act of diving; a darting plunge into or through water or the like.
or, This stupid utopia is not what I want at all
I keep accumulating this lack of texture
this sudden ambivalence and this need
for a periscope—the I's have it, no
the ors have it—in fact
no one has it; we have only
this stupid utopia and the detritus that blows through
this lack of ambivalence and this sudden texture
this need for concealment, a perpetual motion
heartbreak. I keep accumulating.
Things boil
absolutely.
In the static, constant intimation:
I keep resurfacing, uncovering,
it's better than missing everyone. The present
slides, inopportune protection: this isn't much, you know.
I ask for forgiveness, for forebearance, no
I ask for fortuity. I keep accumulating
distance, a concert of difficulties and this insistence
also known as this stupid utopia and this
is not what I want.
Things boil.
Things part.
Reception varies.
I want to jump up and slam something shut.
The fold whimpers
the evidence subsides.
This stupid utopia cannot distinguish: Everything is all at once.
I keep missing, I keep trying to touch…
I can see why you love, intractable
I can see why this lack, why this accumulation
is not enough.
I found you there once, in the drawer
where everything is explained.
