Baskadia

Come—swim in me; tread upon the beaches of cenotes unburied.

Within the water is a sheep led with the aid of the horns.

There is a hand there, white-knuckled and grasping, but it’s you blinking through her sluggish lashes.

You had satisfied yourself (or have been convinced) that out there's where worry lives, walking in a frame now and not your personal, and in case you stored your head down you won't meet its hole mouth skimming over your clean surfaces.

It’s smaller than you’d imagined—the purple curve where God’s knife sliced through, seeking to draw the proper circle.

You're the pinnacle that emerges on the other side of affection, the eye of one thousand lids, starting, searching, I’ve arrived, I’ve arrived.