One

Like losing, like losing, like     losing: the spit, the bear’s eye, the brass bells, their rhythm, their time, only thing,     on beat. Like how I found out,     then folded.     Tiny plastic stick. Everything is jaundiced,     sticky creases.     I’m up right.     Nothing is coming out,     I don’t want it to come out.     There is meaning here.     Orange.     The dogs bark, it’s about to begin.     Yellow sticky tape, it was yellow now it is     orange. I’m not wanting this     fluid moving between     small bones,     dolphins have been doing this for     years. Underwater, underwater with no sound. I’ve had medicine and     bulls riding the speed of lightning down my back, the trot is     strong, no chance of     collapse.     Maybe when I look in the water I want to see nothing.     Maybe I wish I let you fully grow so that it would be too late     to stop you from     reflecting back.