Crabs hustle on the edge of a winter cold sea.
Moon, white.
Sky, black.
The drenched and dry beach sleeps.
Moon, white.
Sky, black.
My tounge won’t reach my heart.
Won’t puncture my heart.
Won’t knife my heart.
Won’t eviscerate my hard boney heart and
evict just one wooden dream with fury or tears so I can re-erect in fire.
Moon , white.
Sky, black.
And then time whisks it all away.
All away.
I’m just a figure fraught with my mind thinking of today.

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