The Weekly Commuter

The earths we lure them with
fit inside
their delicate mouths,
just sized
to sift sand.
We interrupt
great nebulas
they spit
with our universal nets,
no yield yet
but gravity
and celestial dust.

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We cooled while imitating
waves in paintings,
gracefully lined
with the strain
of nearly breaking.
Quiet in our stylized
repetition, we continue
in the same direction,
interrupted only
by young ōhi‘a trees,
at home on our crests
and in our low troughs,
talking together
over the ocean breeze.

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