Our burdens crackle off our backs
like claps of thunder over wheat silver to the moon,
patterns of stem floundering like puppet arms
or the arms of the drowning, drowning, drowned.
You hear them hidden everywhere,
quiet booms of guilt and debt
like beating hearts and busy heads
it’s common, common ground.
We don’t have to weather storms back West,
lightning’ll smack an evening like a bedroom whip; god
it’s exciting to see everything in white,
to feel something unexpected.
The sea, wind, dripping leaves tick ticking, nothing
but motifs you always turn to
from a safe and sandless spot,
your only predator yourself.