Portrait of Atlantis as a Broken Home
I swim down to
look for our four-
chambered house.
The window
in our room still leaf-
darkened, its bruiselight
charged with fault.
Am I very lonely?
I age in reverse until I am as
small as my child
body, my chest swollen
with bright longing
that the walls will not always
greet each other
in collapse—
The lord is kind.
The underworld is lit by half
-moon as if to say, none
of this is evidence,
only decay.
In the drift, this wreck still looks like a life:
everything still hanging is relieved
of its weight like an archer’s arrow
suspended in rags
of snow.
I hunt the me
that made this heavenless night,
my young fear circling your
false beacon, its low
stars and difficult earth stacked
immense against
every fact—
I should be funnier here:
Underwater, iron sinks
weightless as
a kite
plummeting
through peaks.