Certain Shore
This ocean could be me
with stones on the edges
banging together unheard
under the tides, cloud strings sewn
together into pages of breath after breath,
a loss of air in strange circumstances.
It could be hope glued onto felt pieces
It could be microsurgery with lasers
It could be a baseball game where
the runner is tagged at home.
Whatever the television says
is part of the atmosphere.
Whatever it is
could be lost or true.
Soon enough leaves
fall from the trees.
Soon enough religions vote.
Soon enough ice cream supplies
run low due to the lightning strike.
A sailboat would be nice right now,
or a playground with wings
or a more bucolic life.
Just when I thought
I was closing in
the gulls lift off
one by one
leaving me here with
everything to begin
