In drips and drops.
In pourings and spillings.
In overflowings and messy splashings.
In courses twisting through words and throbbing veins.
In drenchings and drownings from inside out.
In howlings and growlings.
In skulking at the edge of the forests that line the curves of my blooding heart.
In crying out to the lost and lone, and bringing them home.
In nocturnal goddesses and the returning and retreating of the blood tides.
In lunacy and lucent laughter.
In birthing and diminishing.
In myriad mysteries interred in motes of dust.
In thrashing and crashing and breaking over rocks.
In pungent savagery steeped in skeletons.
In sonorous silence.
In aqueous curls of spray and secret.
In violently dark tosses of brine and brack edged by light on my salted skin.
*** Calling attention to your overuse of certain metaphors, aren’t you, Sweet Bottom? ***
*** That was the point of this poem. I overuse those metaphors and have no intention of stopping. Can they ever grow tired if they never stop being relevant? ***