My clever geographical me

needs to find the creek bed

where fallen branches and bramble flourish,

burrow into holes

forgotten by the trunks of washed away trees

fold my limbs under my body

and press the face of my forehead

into the suctioning clay.

My I needs to

discharge all this chatter underground

until membrane dissolves,

the creek floods into my tear ducts,

the I secreting the tincture of this telepathy

downriver leach it into lakes

that glint and warm by daylight and

surrender their surface to air and wind.

Until this I

chokes up the planet in continuous clouds

that rain and storm and fill all the listening mouths

with this parenthetical poetry.