Did I laugh too much?
When I cracked my mouth
did I deflate?
Did checking my phone
suck hours from our entanglement,
each lightning glance
one conversation less?
Did my electricity
freeze our golden sand to glass?
Was it the riptide?
And who was the shore,
and who drowned?
People eat bean sprouts,
bamboo shoots, fiddleheads,
you know.
They’re bitter, but
people eat beginnings.
Did some snake
swallow the egg I kept
nested in my breast pocket?
Will I find a skin,
shed, under my bed?
How far did our continents drift?
I wonder if anyone felt
the earth quake, the tiny shocks before.
It might have been the wind,
the fingers I ruffled through your hair,
that drove you underground.
Could I have stopped it blowing?
Could I have snuffed the sun
like a smoking candle?
How much was me,
and how much was entropy?
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