thegoodbadpeople

after all night, sun, clear water, salt thick;

after all, feathered and guarded, soaring under, outside roaming, unending satchel of bread and wine, deviled, solo, I sang love to you;

I sang ambidextrous, tuned by a fifth, missed by a margin, unhoaxed and able, tired of allsorts, maybe unwilling, and the list going on;

going on instinct, often forgiving, awaiting giants, standing for sundials in the garden of apples, twisted and aimed for the sun and the grass and the shore, stung by a seed pod and burned on the mountain, cascading around you with the wind and its children;

I belong to the ocean again and again and again and again;

I belong to the ocean again