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Unlike Percy Bysshe it won’t be my heart
that gets washed ashore when the Niger claims

me as her bride. Flesh is complex, flowchart
of routes, tasty tasty mouthfuls. What shames

me is not how undignified drowning
leaves one, Hart Crane playing dice with Melville’s

bones, will Oya see to that, what’s shaming
is how little the soul cares of what spills

between my lips; girl-blood, essence, wave’s curl.
Spills in my lungs; panic, bone-dust, water.

What shames me is that I can’t save the last
gasp of a girly-boy, a boyish-girl.

Yet I walk on. The seas claimed you, lover,
to their depths where all souls lie, still and vast.