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P
o
e
m
s

Without the noise of home I learn
to hear my body’s own sound.

It is like sleeping in a narrow boat,
waters slapping at the wooden sides

wanting to carve a space already
hollowed out. The failure of

the body’s quiet is the triumph of the ear—
having been pressed to the earth

in my search for currents of missing
footsteps. These feet cannot tread

water. But my ear cannot separate
its own pulse from the sound of marches

My slippery vessel, headlong into the night—
ashore with my sleep, expecting to be gathered.