Bet on the stout Summer
folding up its arches
for a tourist passing by
en route to the beach.
Truly forgiving
is one thing.
Regret (mounting,
whirring, stomping
through Mind’s canyon)
outstrips common decency,
eats hungry babies.
Who do we know anymore?
Do we care? How many fights
do we pick with ourselves?
To see someone lounging,
unknowing and bare,
stripped from
being
what is
in exchange for
what’s there
in plain view,
pixels
smaller than God
that we trade
for false living
and collars to wear.
WHARVED 