The rainy season is a league away traveling 
at the speed of an era. The cloud formation 
does not dissolve as I remove my eyes 

from my palms. I can no longer walk the distance. 
Insects congeal beneath my skin in order 
to rest. I think of a number between one and ten 

and a ditch to place my body in, shallow 
enough to fill—a single spade of gravel 
to cover my mouth, and one for each eye. 

Like emulsion, I want to remember 
what I have touched, the universe 
that crushes; black smoke across 

the lips as night crows speak 
of floodwaters, trees falling quietly 
at night and the night quietly falling at sea. 

A cold morning keeps me frozen in position. 
The heat from the vent near my ribs 
is invisible and comforts me. 

A filtration device is attached to my lungs. 
I have reached the number designated 
as the halfway marker. Soon I will possess 

no more ideas. I am further along 
than I imagined I would be. When my body 
is covered, a mound will be formed. 

Someone will find me fixed in place. 
Rain is falling over the sea and the sea 
begins to arrive. The banks of the ditch 

slide over my limbs. I am having difficulty 
being. Someone will find me. The night crows 
are silent. They are perched on my knees.