When I post things on my Twitter account,
I do not think of you
eating cereal with the morning light
directly on your fingers
cradling a spoon.
I have to remind myself of the importance
to walk the length of the wet sand
at low tide on a day off from work.
You are only low tide when you don't think of it:
barnacle and salt licked, bleached shell exposed,
ready for gathering, and the chance of being taken.
In the late month of June, you sting
my cheeks with expected trust.
Yes as a sphere of stars.
How am I to write "today is just another day,"
when all I read are regurgitated bites of news,
and justice plays a dance of splitting wood for a fire
no one is present for.
[Images: "The Photograph as Contemporary Art by Melinda Gibson" by Aaron Schuman]