Nathan AM Almeida

[12 September 2019]

Remember the night we stood
at the edge of the wharf, breath matching
the in and out of the tide eroding
shorelines and hard lines
between you and me and self-transcendence
and the low wail of the fog horns somewhere
off the coast. Seeing and knowing,
being seen and being known,
boundaries shifting and changing
like constellations drawn
between the satellites overhead. The
seed pushes back against the earth, lying
dusty and dried-out on top of cracked
soil, but free.