Sine

I watched the cut above teal table-top blue grow more sore

beckoned by darkness and tidal roar

and sat small and lone below the firmament.

Immaterial to passers-by skirting the water line

wondering how easily swept away from time

under surf flesh and regret might slip interred

or as easily by the wave that both crushes and rises

be abetted and spit back,

a buoyant spark not yet ready to be sand.