Floating

 
It could be the
surface from below,
perhaps
clouds from above,
perhaps

Suspended,
up and down,
floating, floating.
Weightless, unpulled.

It could be the
air, water, light
– so precisely anything –
floating, floating.

Ground. Seabed.
Stratosphere.

Salt on the lips
– ah, yes, the ocean,
that vague memory.
Aren’t clouds made of
saltwater or dustwater,
dunes or oceanfloors
– floating – floating.

A gowpen of cottonwool,
a thoughtful of smoke,
all could be inside my mind
– subfaces and surfaces –
mirror of mirrors of mirrors
slowly spinning on myself
dimensions lost to the senses
I am nothing, floating, floating

if only the moon, a bird, a fish
I’d know where I
floating, floating
was – stars perhaps
I’d know – floating
why I enjoy
floating, floating
so much