Leaving this island, where the Sauks are no more . . .

Sorry to mention the chorus of cicadas / and the constellations of fireflies

Youth, greedy for beauty, / Squanders it carelessly.

You shark-circle me, I know, But I am in my own ocean, Lying in hushed dark blue and looking up To the curve of the tail of my blue whale.

This morning the world tried its best to tuck me back in.

. . . there's no doubt about it, it's pure naiad scorn.

We consume what we must, to make it up. In this neighborhood, tact never stood a chance.