the tide will come in
but i—always—outrun
upon the—jutting rock,
once, being
a starfish holding the air
face down—folded
could not
un-cinch the tongue
let loose procrastinated
words. tender—the
past, tender
right to live
like a sunflower
diverted by the sun’s
path is inevitable
or an ant will find
its queen
i divert in
halted syllables—sung,
hobbled back, face
up—air—
gasps.
In Due Proportion 