by Ella Flores
Even now, everything is ending.
No one knows this, but I am
fairly young, still new to, of, for
this world. Even after
all this time, I have no words
for my diving and rising, newing and unnewing,
my blood coming up curious for air from
the vents of my depressions,
and the tiny tips of my fingers that reach the sunlight,
how I watch, shift beneath them.
The tubeworm, the squid, the anglerfish,
they had names before those.
Before utterance. Better
ones without. Just the idea of each
to the other, and everything
was claimless, everything wild,
everything a moving mural of heaven alive––
All you little movements, quick jettings, invisible spries
I love you,
or the idea of love is you,
here now, and then