poem

there's a whistle hollaring at the depths of the sea.
lengths and tides.
formularize salted air.
speak to me like currents and minutes of the time.
holding to the ground,
like concrete should
move me and i become the salted air,
mending muscle and bones.
patterns form like shadows from the sky
alive and well.
moving? we already are.
sun and moon swap like shifts,
sleep is scared away.
dreams become something when eyes are wide.
falling into liquid fluid walls.
we bind.