She wears indigo
fog on her feet. Gently.

Everything crumbles
at its own pace. She

survives

it. No one knows
why so sad now.

This love/hate relationship
with the nearest star.

Decades pass
at their own pace. The sand

is so cool

between her toes.
She can barely distinguish

the ferry’s form
as it breaks

the inky horizon. So much to bless
about that boat and its ancestors.

Without them,
she would have no reason

for this island-shaped
tattoo covering her heart.