measurement Soma I try to skip dirty stones across the dark ocean, endlessly folding out, like nucleic infinity, between us. Landing and flying off mirrors of twilight. I write short love notes on the flat rocks like: . . . . "Thanks," . . . . "You’re awesome," . . . . and . . . . "I don’t understand." Other times I write deeply on scrolls, rolling them carefully and sliding them in a bottle, begging the spirits of the waves to break . . . . upon your shore. Seldom I write on tissues, wadding white rags into a mightily hurled balled, just to watch it sink down on the exhale of the ocean’s breath, as sea salt mixes with that of my eyes . . . . and heaves. But I swear you can decipher my runny notes. One time I bolstered my mouth to a megaphone and tried to shout my list of demands over the gross expanse, and was spent like a storm until all I had was to whisper and kiss the sand. Often, all I can do is stare at the open lockjaw mouth of water gurgling silently, between us. I reminisce about what happened with the hollow darkness before all things started aging. How matter emerged and blossomed like we creatures of flesh fumbling from cocoons blindly learning to love I skip a rock, hoping for a bridge And somehow, it makes its way across. 240216 what's it to you? who go blather from