i am not a child of the sea.
waterless. weightful. buoyant.
afraid of seemingly clairvoyant minnows darting
from my floating feet.
my billows lungs pumping air bubbles in the murk.
halting, hateful. crabs hidden, lurking in the sand.
the horizon, the waves, the logic defying infinity.
an affinity i’ll never mold to.
i am a city man.
flaked concrete patios skinning knees.
skidding sideways down gravel driveways.
hole punched shadows on the sidewalk
from the bushy branches above.
kicking up dust when the earth is dry
and the grass is brown.
soothes me better to creep along one way streets
with nightair seeping in through cracked windows
than strolling sock and shoe footed
over beaches like ashtrays, like garbage cans
cigarette butts and bottles stabbing our soles.
smells nicer to inhale burnt rubber, burnt wood, charcoal
instead of saltwater swum in by others.
feels better in my backyard under artificial moonlights
when you’re in a tanktop under the umbrella
instead of bikini clad, all lit up under a starry sky on the coast.
when i tell you
i like your pollution and all your cracks,
all your brainwaves and loudness, your clutter, your tracks,
your darkness and distance, your dead ends:
i mean you remind me of something i love very much.
so. there’s that.