POEM: Muscle Memory

This ocean is a gray tidal yank
That speaks with a blurred accent
of wild  greens and geese – the yellow
skin of sad-eyed light
makes up  the neurons of dark storms.
This frame is a blight of opaque water, is a dying
movement: go on and be brave.
Sea birds carry word to all the lost faces of a
                                 drowning in the canals,
flying against the pink buildings. Helium
lifts mylar thoughts. Salt drops everywhere are alive.
You slog on, not knowing how, unfocused on the place
where breathing can no longer be felt: where
this is not the kind of  music we can play by ear.