salt, salt, salt & bulbs of blooming anxiety lit from the fingertips, circling the arteries, igniting the brain. trichotillomania, the trick that i’ve played. no ideas, the ocean drives me electric mad as a rabid dog, a bad dog, a dog spazzing up on fourth of july’s eve. to feel the sun, an underrated heavenly bitch born for life and murder, smiling down on us sardines dressed in seal costumes playing, soon to be consumed. i knew it, and the water reflected azure. a wave a million molecules, spitting out ice. a hushed crunch between my teeth wanting no sand. a thread of dark heads bobbing, all facing ocean. what are they waiting for? slit eyes beneath the sun, all in search for one precise moment of parallel times — the mind time, the earth time. deceivingly metric intuition — some call it coincidence, some call it masterpiece. (master the movement’s pieces.) congruent fingers meet & merge in perfect form, leaving no escape for scintillas of sand. but somehow, a few grains find gravity.