by Abner Dormiendo

Take the world and turn it over, try and see things
in reverse: the sky is land, the earth is an ocean. The sun
throws beams over buildings and homes like skipping stones
and it ripples and waves — the fishes stir awake
on corals of concrete, our tired feet searching stillness
in the midst of disturbance. Places murk. Sun rays lurk
on the deepest floors. Tell me there is something more
than just floating. Clouds started racing, and you tell me
‘We do not belong here’. Our eyes rise above the sky
and we do not belong here. Above there are wider spaces
and the ocean cannot hold enough fishes who dream of better seas.
Can you stop the night from casting its net? What sets
apart the dreamers from the dream, when our scales gleam
on moonlight, all of us write? Tonight I sought at being caught,
getting tangled; the nets of the moon, I have wrangled.
If I do not return, do this for me: turn
the world over its place, and I will resurface.

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