This has nothing to do with birds

There is a line that is never crossed

by water. I walk over it, brainstorm

names for a sixth ocean. Chaos

theory suggests disorder is predetermined — 

a flock of wings against paralysis. 

I nurse my hunger for you like a baby.

I bake bread for seagulls. I do not question

the fate of my crumbs. I don’t have to be

anywhere these days. I take a vow

of music to remember your voice —

how you would wake me like a muezzin

who has lost faith but not love

for sunrise. I no longer draw

the curtains at night. I choose voyeurism

every time until time too resembles you.

The way wrinkles follow joy. The median

of old age is indecision. I do not know how

to end anything but in ellipses. I am learning

the ecology of escape from things that forever

return to their point of origin — water perishing

from sea to sky and back, an endless loop

of ampersands. I cannot be certain 

if I still love you. Love is what the sky does 

to birds: an open cage and always another place

to be. Could the same be theorized for someone

who stands knee-deep in the ocean wanting

a glass of water? All my thirst, all this salt.