I stand to my chin in the cyan sea.
Salt burns my nose when I look down.
Nothing is near that belongs to me,
and nobody for miles around
when my back faces the crowded shore.
The solitary understands
one’s placement apropos the birds.
I am a cloud, or a silver machine.
Because I was raised by people, I became
bonded to people. I skipped
over the crabgrass with the other girls.
I laughed when they wanted. I ate what they handed.
Mastered the wind harp and Acrobat Pro.
Mastered Instagram and the sousaphone.
Much like a person, I have steeled myself
to like a person other than myself.
Still, secretly, I am, as you, a frightened god.
Birds skirl their warnings through the brisk, raw sky,
but I am become deaf, the destroyer of words,
submerged to my crown in the cyan sea,
chopping the spume with my many arms.