Of the body,
the belly identifies best with the sea.
The belly identifies best with the sea, where the closed-sphere skull and the rib-cage gradually open, one unfurling rib-finger by one to the breathing fluid belly.
The belly identifies best with the sea at the opening of the sea-sky fold, when forest or city draws back its curtains and all senses reroute to the belly via the heart.

The belly and the sea know the vulnerability and depth of breath.
The belly and the sea know the language of sensitive salt fluids.
The belly and the sea know the adequate degree of ripeness.

In the visceral language of belly and sea, spirals whisper fluids and resonate waves.
In the language of viscera, vowels are round pebbles rolled in the mouth,
syntax is the churning of shore waves,
and flirtation is the palpitation of sun-lit wavelets.

In the search for renewal, the belly and the sea find
that that which is in the process of becoming is most
ancient.

****still a work in progress, not sure how to end it.

waterbodies II

The river nodes of my wrist
flip cross direct when
they feel the sea near.
Blue tributaries that rush to tingle
fingerpads at the humidity of salt
air. The blue blood sea blush
traces the swirls of this body,
a warmth in the river neck,
the sphere-lake brain,
the seafoam fingertips,
the twin torrent thighs
and the ocean belly.
Pulse pushes for tide.
Feel the white roar of abrupt
end of land. Moon lumens pull
at the blood sea lumens of my veins
and direct a tide between
brain and belly and body,
a slow push of blood sea
to fingers, back to gut.
Ocean sound: deep rumbles wrap
the spirals of cochlea from waterwaves
to airwaves to waterwaves to brainwaves.
Sound. Sound. Roar. Lap-ripple.
Water to air to water to air.
Ocean to sky to body to mind.
We are where the rivers spill
and the sea is all. 

Our body is a temporary membrane, necessary to hold our waters.

Our body is a body of water that breathes in and out as a watery lung.
Liquid environment in, altered water out.

We consume water from leaf bodies, from root bodies, from animal bodies, from fruit, egg, seed, milk, fungi bodies and from groundwater bodies.

We give water back as thin layers of sweat spread across our skin, concentrated in places like
under the arms, under breasts, behind knees, between legs, across the brow, along the spine.

We breathe water from the wet caverns our our mouth and nose, from the spongy cave of our lungs.

We leak water from between our legs to show excitement and ecstasy before love, during love, after love; dewdrops, streams, oceans.

Our blood water blushes red as it passes by the alveoli of the lungs, rushes to a purple-blue in the capillaries before it rivers up against the thin skin of wrists, eyelids, the backs of knees, throats.

Water wells up against the water-orbs of our eyes with joy or with pain or at that inarticulate
moment of emotion.

Water cradles our organs as interstitial fluid in the translucent pockets around the lungs, the heart, below the diaphragm.

Water filters in the kidneys, through the loops of henle and glomerulus, flows in and across membranes, down tubes to swell in the bladder before one descent of many through this particular body to join another body of water.

Our body moves like water as the arching waves of the tongue, as peristalsis down the esophagus, as the twisting of the stomach, as the smooth-muscle glide through the intestines.

Our body moves like water in the rotating of sockets, the twist of spines, curve of bellies, roundness of skulls, fluid traced in air by motion.

Our body senses with water through lake-orb eyes, through water-spiral cochleas, through hot-film saliva, through neuronal cytoplasm.

Our body once knew the fluid press of seas against our ever-moist skin.

Our body gushes at the wetness of water on the shore.

Our minds gush at the memory.