It’s not simple as
you have fast-twitch,
I have slow.

I always knew dirt
was the answer.

Tread water
this precious. Air,
mercurial. Fire,

fear and courage
dance to the edge
of tread lightly

on the beach
without uttering
a sound or wasting

a word this far gone.
Apologies encased
in a foamy guilt

sink to the bottom—
no longer interrupted by pearls
or extraterrestrial dust.

Plastic shame floats
to kill its way
around a neverending loop.

Tread now to the heartbeat
of this aching place
we call home. Can you hear it,

can you hear it,
hear it, please,
I know you can.