As If

Three pounds of fiery neurons, lodged

in the grave of a skull

atop a seventy percent water

column, pacing the beach,

trying to fathom aliveness

especially the ocean, as if

thoughts were not fish, schooling,

or buds in early spring

under late snow

against dark rocks

where it’s warmer

and safe to grow, as if

the folly of comprehending aliveness was even possible, as if

staring at the sun wouldn’t blind you, as if

words exist

and enigmas aren’t enigmas, as if

we are not umbilically


like children to kites, as if

the length of string didn’t matter.

~ by Karen Sullivan 

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