The Ocean

that day, a man approached 

with backward stare, sat down

beside, began to talk of what

you couldn't hear, his eyes wet;

''I have a gun in my mouth'', 

they said, he spoke, you listened,

nothing, and walked away

whispering; ''I don't care''

''When shadow is a bastard 

sun, breathes dirt among the 

nesting worms on branches 

underground, what sun counts 

passerby's too slow for flickering 

strings of trains, greying eyes,

or strobes in misty nightclubs?''

Dark is treading water now, and

all around you careful feet lift, dip 

past snakes and thorns,- and out 

into the ocean.