The water flow brings not
salvation but jagged seaglass
that burrows within the callused skin
of my big toe and stubbornly refuses
to break out until I get out my cheap knife
and cut around the skin but by then
my fingers are too bloody to get a good grip.
Still, the waves crash in the cavity
of my swollen head and at least my viscous fingers
feel so good sliding on cheeks.
I am pushed and pulled relentlessly by the moon
up and down, a dead body floating and sinking.
I want pity from the sand beneath me
but it burns my back and provides no solidity.
I yell— I am trying to become one of you—
yet the words are cement and I choke
on the salty spray and besides no one is here but
my want and my want and
no ocean is big enough for that.
