unsure, to be sure

it is the early hour of the night
that crept through the sheets
and icy mist until it appeared as today,
it is the end, or beginning:
the end of a long fitful dream,
the off-ramp for distressed sleep--
or the beginning of knowing,
of remembering that which remained
after the kiss was consumed by flames.

i am not sure of these hands,
this hair, these percussive heartbeats,
i am unsure of the tide that leaves twice
and returns twice as many times.
why, i ask, do i need the bitter spoon
to stir the sugar in my throat?
is it absolutely necessary, i wonder,
to probe the wounded parts of me
with so much salt in the pumice stone?

when, in the course of crashing her waves,
does the sea reinvent the desire to cry,
to wail, to shriek weeping at our feet
when at other times she sings us to sleep?
had i not known i could not swim
i would not have left the shore
with a broken umbrella and featherless wing.

leave now, bitter wind, silent and invasive beggar,
stretch your arm to the next horizon
and take with you this lingering hope yet to be born.
i abolish my slavery to the chains of this unknowing,
here by this sea, by this sky, everywhere,
this i declare.