
Early morning
searing beach -
low tide,
the whiff of
fresh brine vegetable decay.
A faint breeze mutes the humidity
like a flirt whispering
sweet nothings in your ear,
making promises
she will never keep.

Early morning
searing beach -
low tide,
the whiff of
fresh brine vegetable decay.
A faint breeze mutes the humidity
like a flirt whispering
sweet nothings in your ear,
making promises
she will never keep.











Every source of secret amusement
comes with the cost
of isolation, and
the threat of smugness -
conviction of a specialness,
a vestige of a
childhood inkling
that, inhaled
like some illicit powder,
maintains that delusion,
when the rough truth
remains:
it is not so.












Born into a situation not of our choosing,
an everlasting tornado of intentions
and events,
is what we were born into,
and what we will die out of,
and almost none of it is under our control.
With illness and decay,
until we are no more.
What do we truly own?