Herring myself into the ocean-

poem I root girlness out of, Leviathans

seek in me a heartbattle with lipstick

heartbutter; who/what am I

to win? Her like hurl like har har

like harbor and a sprinkle of herr. Say no

more, my herring bones on pinkglitter

herringbone floors, flowering my hims an altar

to lavenders, Dorothies, friends to sing of.

Hymning the poet out of the hue-man

or mighthaps the human out

of the hue-man, I am never sure

which— the thing is that I am he-

re, buddying and butting and budding

in singulars and plurals, and that’s what

I means, here, the theys, the third persons

and their thirty self-thirding theatrics, collectives

of bouquet or branch or vase, rendering blooms

uncountable.