Totality

I am the trilling water,
pushed forever toward the rock.
I am the heaviness in the kitchen air,
pan-seared and spice-rubbed,
the tongue darting long and short
in a Morse code of desire
around a swirl cone.
I am the ruffled bird hopping
hoping for crumbs,
the acrobat spider
dancing sticky-legged in the eaves
outside my apartment,
the bee whose anger
eviscerates only him;
the barb wounds, but my
guts spill across the flowers.
I am the crying, flying gull,
the scrape of metal shears,
the boom and wake of the stunt jet
overhead that stuns them silent and
gawp-mouthed, and the
shush and sizzle of rain in August.