Do you remember when we cracked our saddles against the flared skyline?
Morning is a container of lists now.
You rail in tight packets
and wear the fallen prism.
Swimming sidelong, the ring
in miniature
slides in next to the scratches
you squint into my waterlogged
furrow.
Your paddle, my web.
Your vigil, my birth.
The inverse of collapse is an empty rescue.
(Your collar
my attempt to soar)
Shannon E. Williams 
ya lost me a bit with “fallen prism” but “empty rescue” is quite good.