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.