Discharge the Chaos

Maybe I’m just storm-swung

wrung out or sunk in a sea

eyes, brackish mouth, tide-moody

just seaweed using my breath to change the air 

I edge 

the machinery of my own trapping 

brush it from mind to gut 

while habit of mind like each fertile phase 

shortens me

gears lock into gears imperfectly

cloud cover scrapes my tonsils quiet 

does its disorienting work 

while the sun in it squints me 

I furrow