the salt inside
slowed each drip of
my amniotic atlantic.
every pressing step
attached me to the
timeless shores of sin;
and the sun began to dry
this symbolic avant-garde collage.

my life began sticky wet,
outwards from the sea.
my ceaseless sins glued and dried
from the faulting sands of life.
but the distant patch of grass
beneath my smoothed and sticky feet
massaged more than that,
cleansing,
to walk through life anew.