I’ve tried to translate it,
but it won’t stay on the page.
It is not meant for land.
I chase it down a channel and attempt
to reel it in, only for the thin line to break—
for me to find myself in the water with it.
And for a moment I catch it: it’s just a wall of blue
post-it notes. It’s just a glass of wine on the table.
An affinity diagram of faint marks. And each time
I go to bold the connection, the one next nearest
collapses, and in an instant, it is morning again.
The cool dawn—the wide eye. I levitate above it
breezed into predicament; my ricocheted mind
tracing its way to the creamer.