on being reminded that I am the quiet one

reserve

slip anchor from reserve,
moon lit, night fired high,
slip anchor from all days,
forget the names of things.

drunken memory by this river,
shaping mud to make a stage;
the ecstatic risk of drowning.

cut manners, method, talk,
a hand’s perfect breadth,
cut history from the books,
write the empty page.

drunken memory by this bridge,
my reflection calls for diving;
the ecstatic risk of drowning.

cry out in the harbour,
split lungs with screaming,
break the river’s bank.
flow out into the sea.