Ode to What I Do Not Know

Two animals, doe-eyed, slick across the road
into the femur of the night. Their feet learn
the reptile skin of earth, dark roots, and the tethering of dream.
I wake up away from myself.
The fast animals of my eyes crouch through thickets
into a sky-colored beach where I suddenly look up and see
that my tongue is a country of birds.
This water twists like a snake to taste itself. Water says, you know,
I have never tasted of myself. I do not know myself.

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