Enactment. Discourage me
from accusing you. You are ashore,
waving your rotting hands,
decaying before waves,
of sunlight you sent away.
Another eternity
to match reflection
with a suddenness,
a truth just discovered,
emboldened, enlightened
at what you sent across
on sinking ships.
Who are we
to keep feeling this way?
A cross, hammered with nails.
A droplet of blood
diluted into salt,
of oceans,
with breath over
everything we have ever
discovered,
denying our fears,
crystallizing our certainty
in dewdrops and tears.
Which way? What day
will we be united,
with hands that never wave
for waves, blending themselves
in curves over sands,
upon burning shorelines?
What face will we make
when we are fossilized,
among remembered moments
of near-fatal heartbreak?
Are we hopeful? Are we fitful,
or are we hoping to fit ourselves
for limitless tragedy?
Modern Romanticism 