Hitchport II

Sometimes I see a word on a pillow as if I'm awake in 
it, its owning grace quickened without backstroking on 
others' words.  Those

Of others. Of yours. 
Of you.

That's a word.  Yet how to deliberate on rhyme 
with sea twins holding off tears.  Don't know.

Together, unconditional joy would be an honor riding on 
back Of

vocal emotion, can't you forget?  And remember, no 
swimming alone, asleep at nine...

unless sometimes breaking sweat against that desert 
shame's bravado

disappears, launching a franchise, closing up beyond 
life.