THE THREAD: I used to dream oceans . . .

Hey, here's a new poem!

I used to dream oceans, and me afloat, 
treading water endlessly, steadied 

by a gentleness of mind made real
from soft motions beneath the bone.

This me, buoyant object at rest, at last.
Oceans are like this, you know,
 
at least the kind that hold you up,
different from the sinking sort.

A sinking ocean wants what it wants
and what it wants is to lift nothing,

to see you slip, witness you gasp,
watch you end upon its floor, crushed. 

That’s not right, you say, not quite.
Water doesn’t behave in particular ways

as if in a mood. Only particles in motion.
No, you think, we are the problem here,

our skills, body type, level of resistance,
how we conduct ourselves, how we breathe,

our responses, solid choices regardless
of tranquil or turbulent waters.

I can only alter myself so much, you see,
only so often, in only so many ways.

The oceans now go on changing beyond 
such dream recollections. I forget

to remember how to find such gentleness, 
softening gestures to buoy the bone.

What I’m currently reading: William Stafford’s The Way It Is: New and Selected Poems, Willa Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop, Donald Revell’s The Art of Attention

What I’m currently listening to: MJ Lenderman’s Manning Fireworks, Cigarettes After Sex’s X’s, Efterklang’s Piramida, Old 97’s Satellite Rides