…from

evercrash of waves put me
 on the untouched shore
 I crawl because i don’t know
 how to walk this grain.

 Now I would say tumbled waves
 are fletched like an arrow constantly
 turned to ensure its flight straight
 and unencumbered by splinters.

 Later I staunch blood, remember
 the now of the sun then, too bright,
 too warm in this comfort blanket.

 Now I would say I was slippery
 as bladderwrack or between thighs
 of a woman heated by want,
 and hungry but not for food.

 I leave it to the ocean
 behind me that flickers
 with sounds some of which
 i understand but the waters

 less and less drag me back,
 push me to drygrain land.
 I must find leafshelter
 in the arms of mothered soil,

 in the limbs of the trees,
 beneath the coddling leaves,
 a fallen tree stump helps

 me stand. I break a branch
 test it does not break with my weight.
 I stand free of the stump. Upright.

 Now I would say my skin
 lost its sheen, became sticky
 as the green blood of plants
 that trap food with their leaves.

To…

upright, you can see further,
and in the sand prints
of your own feet, and others,
smaller, differently shaped,
 
Now you would say these are scratches
on pages, distinct signs in a forest,
or plain, each holds itself a tell, a map,
of sense and season and root.
 
smooth your hand over gnarled
stick of then that supports your weight
when you stride forward to follow
the beckoning of others tracks,
 
inhale the freshness from the waves,
that tastes salty to your tongue,
the sweetness from the inland trees,
and smaller flimsy coloured leaves,
 
and a bitterness, a stink gets stronger,
as you trace the tracks other
than your own go inland, broken
leaves. How many feet does it have?
 
Now accused of techno anomie
because you refuse others access to your senses,
your avatar still in the forest, on the plain,
walks without aid beside the everwaves .

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