the dog, the dog, he’s at it again

the pacific roars
not a single star to witness—

darker than the bottom, cold as a stingray's skin, his body swims among polluted waves
shattering the air in a prismatic gathering of light
and aquamarine and gold and green
fishbones and salt
salt
salt
salt

he guesses time is linear again, thank god

and, oh, it’s july. one last month left to mourn the past and get rid of its iridescent scales, one more month of blue, moody singsongs. trinta dias submersos.

(please do not leave your lungs to drown with one last memory of me, Ocean)