i take my contacts out. let them drop
into an old water glass
dusting its circle clean.
to take the day
off the eyes,
to see it floating in jobless water
thats casually leaving itself
they say there's memory in water,
and when ripples widen, its wrinkles
are writing down
all the sounds we make. I'll take it soon
to the sink.
letting go, the sounds it keeps,
like water records
we'll both forget,
as it joins itself below the street-
and then the sea.
and the tide
laughing, yelling our quotes
to the moon.
I hear them too, from my opened window
microphone; only the nouns are verbs and
there is no room for why. but the moon
doesn't get it.
and neither do I, but we both smile
because the ocean is funny.