Greetings From Sunny Sarasota!

We are no other than a dead poet's words
a metaphor reaching across meaning and time
towards some nobler language
stuck, as we are, in our own

Myself, I stepped on a snail the other day
(crack) - and looked out over the red-tide bay
walked across a beach of wrack, and scale, and bone

(yeah, I'd call myself a nature lover)

In the watery eye of a pufferfish
a doubled question bubbled into view
asking about performativity
about the beginnings and ends of our outstretched hand

would I could I I'd plunge
that hand down, the fingers in 
to scatter the smoke and smog and mirrors and

And perhaps find an answer
or a talisman (fish brains?)

some insurance that our aspirations live
in more than breath
longer than ink stains.

1. https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9l2no3/undercovers/e73ltti
2. https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/9kuuxy/spunk/e73hlox