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.