5

it's busy in the space around the moon so attachment wanes. it's a waning-only cycle, the buzz just goes & goes. we try to learn waxing from the candles we light but are confused by what fire decreases. we wax our fingers. it doesn't help, but it feels nice. our attention goes to the tides, how their comings are also goings, how some circles roll out along a slope and you have to really watch to know where the cycle closes. that place the wax left raw meets salt. it's a grownup feeling to like the sting. it's never too late to be rocked, even if you're rocking alone. soon learning goes and sleep comes in tidesound, the sand works around the knots, even the inside ones. ease is knowing the tide will keep coming to kiss your toes for a while. a buzz drains out your ear where heart beep meets long rolling.
                    i am granular here at the shore
                                                               or i aspire to be
and that helps me unbutton myself into the water. the future licks my ankles before disappearing my feet. if it's winter i can't feel or see them at all, and then i know i could be walking anywhere. desire has a ridge to it, a place to hook your finger. hold on, it's a long walk and you've got to drag the dirt around. you've got to carve what you need to say somewhere. there's a glint of metal a few inches down, something used to manufacture being here. my hands still think they're carrying water. it isn't winter.