The Weekly Commuter

A softening of syllables,
a bright blur
on the vegetables,
the humidity we listen in
perceptible, and the sky behind
dip-dyes to blue.
Concrete made a city
of our scenery, but the morning
is yielding, otherworldly,
and the distance, however real, thins
to see-through, interrupted
by the air between.

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The cut edge of a cloud
stands out
against its backdrop
of atomized blue.
Until the bell rolls
on its greased axle,
the morning’s music
is not mechanical.
Even with the windows down,
car rides try us
when they’re not to home.
All along the bridge,
we hold our breath
but the middle and the end hurt
so we miss the open sea stretch,
every passenger’s due.

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Born along on undercurrents,
flush with jellies, errant nets,
and plastic bits—we merge
in an earth-scale eddy,
gradually, oceanly.
Deep saltwater swimming,
we express sweatiness
with difficulty, distracted
by bioluminescence
and the rare
burning in our chests—where air
once went, we remember. Long since,
we let the tides take us.

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