There were great kelp bladders, air mouthed into the growth, fed into them. The process of lifting near rootless, an easy production. Sea constant against each hollow knuckle: falling, unfalling.
I have no built-in buoy. I collapse into the undrinkable.
A benzo or two and so casual a silence becomes, even here in the sea.
But mostly, I remember the river. My head rooted under that water, pulling against anything that wanted to lift. The plants thin green and mucus-rich in my teeth. How did I ever find the water.
Arms, off. Legs, off. No, that's not true. Just the horn and some skull.
There is no leaving, not whole. The adjustment plain and ordinary. An everyday thing, like flux.
The hard hollow frame for breath collapses under sedation. A matter of giving away, of no longer resisting. Heaviness from needled air.
I would like to continue.
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