I cling to the rejection, like my next breath may depend on it
All the little details.  Conspiracy theories. Sudden realizations.
Oh yes, that's it, that's why, then nothing, it's all clouded over again
and yet I am certain, like tripping over a log in a fog, that there is hope

It lies there, like that drift wood log, the ones I know lie out on the dunes of Monterey
and whiten in the sun, and are carved by the waves
It awaits me and is now as solid, as those pieces of dead tree, whose skeletons are so appealing
as they float, or lie still, partially covered in sand, home to an insect or crab,
and then wandering again, a perch for a bird, or for me
and on to their next stop

They will always be there, so long as there are trees and the Monterey Bay,
and it all beckons me.
As I sit in a muck, stuck somehow, if I move, I'm certain to lose a shoe
and yet, move I must, even if I will look silly slipping and sliding around
to that sandy shore, as the other muck dwellers watch me
some ridiculing. Some curious.  Some sit on nice pieces of mud, elevated from the stench
Others, sunk to their knees.  I must leave.  However awkwardly, to hope.