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Hapor (This Might As Well Happen)
Small and growing voids will stick
to the undersides of shoes,
turning their soles into pits.
The ankles wade over heels,
submerged and sunk beneath waves
that bray like ocean-made beasts,
without chill or warmth or weight,
fog at mercy to the moon.
Engorged by coastline mirage,
mirrored at the horizon,
a storm born from gasping breaths,
old and antiquated fears.
Pale branches risen from root,
given tenuous freedom,
break seed to reach and coil,
turning to smoke and vapor,
billowing to rain on land.
