May 8, 2011
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He's stuck in a murky mosaic the
Other rocks seem to manage as they just
His complaints muffled.

The others shimmer a repetitive tango but
I know it's just the tide.
But warm and solid.

I consider this old man in my hand.
Every rip,
Every rupture.
Each a narrative wound that keeps bleeding.

Tossed deeper
But always pulled back in.
As frustrating as it may be,
Bound to a miserable wait.

As the years slowly decay what is left
As he sheds his dated veil
And the brackish water strips his flesh,
Eroding till he is just

A pebble.

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