dreams on the indian ocean, the El and the nature of failure

i wish i had an anger
to make engines of my weak edges
to weather passages of people and time
from hope to home to grape skins and blood vessels
rainwater, virtue and silence, collected
in a barrel under a rain gutter where, forgotten,
nymphs make a home away from the birds' black eyes.

i am sleeping alone-
there are scorpions in my luggage,
who run beneath the bed, black feet ticking
in the hot huffing of the fan
until dawn's awl of blue light.
if i wake up, the room empties.

my mother attends me;
i've been far away, and i came back almost whole.
i'm was doing better than that, i thought.

the ocean drags back
as if someone pulled the plug seven miles down
revealing the bone spine under the clear blue world.

in this dream, my arms and legs are useless, and my lungs stall
i am crawling like a crab up
these stairs, which seem as infinite as hope
and as hopeless as my limbs
moving in fits,
but moving as a heart moves,
until the last moment, as if it will never stop.