Salt to Make a Sea

I cannot hold such emptiness —the only meaning, the meaning we make & the way time tugs the body down, the body named bone, named brain, the color of dust & tremor, the soft meat & the bag it lives in. We beg from the body; it shivers & spits—we settle for desire, in- commensurate sorrow, for a life like too much water, shallow & wide, for enough salt to make a little sea.