Surfacing
Night is still in its diving bell.
Turn over the body-heat,
tuck head into a shoaling mind.
You imagine the window, the drapes,
the walls, the round walls
all fish-eyed and rising.
February eats whatever fat
the dawn carries with it.
Space fountains are thawing
in the drip of reality.
It is still too cold
for blood to be naked.
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