Many's favorite surface
doesn't bear a map.
They may wander in,
happened feet
there to find themselves
in a dress-drive pattern
simply dangerous.
Maybe they keep sight of the house
like an answer.
Then a laughing 'yes' arrives in conversation,
and though they shake learned,
the regular is various,
and high 'wasn't' is a 'usually' and 'except',
and the tide comes in...
The world is only natural.
And when the bodies
'round
their planets
cycle,
and what comes close now draws away,
the tide goes out...
lowering to leave a bottom green.
And many fear, nor a match become.
But many forget the dangerous.
Many slowly dry
in some environment
supporting other life
not theirs.
They see the warning signals,
but over a time,
make the sign belong.
The lager drunk,
sweating brown bottle empty,
they become what's left there in their hands.
And over a time,
weather would erode
their glass against the trouble
thrown upon the tide,
going out...
Briefly they may think to float a worth,
something like a note inside
for who may find them next,
and even some may write it,
a letter of regret and hope straight up,
cap the safeguard from a wash
that surges past, not in,
stoppered from dilution...
And they would
live sincerely as the bottle
rather than the letter...
Dark Molecule
I might mention the chemistry
the make-up beneath the face
eye shadows highlight the gleam
but one dark molecule persists
confiscates the harmony
of the whole
geology of the cheek
the salt noun tear
and a body sum of parts
relearns its nature -
feels the aggregate -
aware of separation
senses every vivid
molecule of life -
and one that's dark
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