this is the way that you sigh,

a leafless branch
wavering helplessly

between tides

waving goodbye to some great memory

exhaling depleted air.

Sloping beaches
roman snails
slinking deeper
into my pail.

on a hillside a log topples downward

showing a fungi of colors
in millet-seed sized scales

a devils cup
curls up

under the dark undergrowth

a mat of mossy sponge
    too lichen thick

drains its
blistering-ulcerating-soul
into an inner memory with as many folds

where are we now?

us,
a wandering tribe of black eyes.