No shipwreck. No life cast away from.
Cloaked amniotic, I waited in the atoll.
Whether I opened or closed my eyes,
the flesh-colored night was ever falling.
Curled to myself like the crook of a staff,
how could I distinguish loneliness
from communion? No constant raft
was my body, assembling, as I was,
from coughs of water. I returned
to an island I could not remember
leaving. Before killing a goat, I would
sing into its ear, warbling of a place
as a conch does the ocean. I never
did finish becoming a man.
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