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.