What was the orca thinking
when she swallowed
all those full-grown sea
otters whole? In the final

moments of her life—needle
sharp claws piercing the throat.
The circularity of it all.
Some day, the trapezoid will conquer

estuaries. Rivers will reveal
themselves to be the true ouroboros
as they devour falls,
concrete, bedrock, banks

whole. And I’ll be balancing
on the floating boardwalk.
Failing to skip stones,
I’ll be making lists instead.

Things that rock:

One hundred boats
during last night’s storm.

The wooden horse with chipped
white paint peeling off. Bare feet

on sand. Buoys beyond the harbor.
The chairs on your father’s porch.

A plane flying over the mountain.
The coffee-stirring

Steinway Tower on West 57th Street.
The foreshocks, mainshocks,

aftershocks, everything
between. Every last boy I was

infatuated with. The getting over
each one. From there, I will list

to the rhythm of the quaking bog
beneath my feet.