Reality like ocean waves in winter
cold and crashing onto an empty beach
of east or west coast—doesn’t matter
Sand is sand
time is time
love is love
Or it isn’t. Spring evaporates, a
fragrant memory. Inland lurks the
honest doubt, the ifs and buts
of intimacy, the stops
(as if tide could be halted giving us
time to assimilate, figure it out)
What if reality like ocean waves
in summer pounds on melted feelings
if putting it together is an act
of cause against the tide? Hot
immediate, it’s now or not at all
Then, what would you make of it
as leaves fall?