Barnacle

As far as endings go

I have not had much closure

with those

 

I don’t let go. I’m a barnacle

stuck to the sharp end of the boat,

who does not know it is

at the edge of

a big thing.

 

Headstones white, in a green

cemetery, look like white daisies sprinkled

on. She said there were observable differences

found in the mass field,

but these thousands of heads(tones)

were all the same;

names repeat

numbers are just patterns.

Death turns us all the same, I said.

 

When she turned her eyes at me,

they ran me

through like electricity,

swimming through water,

unable to find the

next big thing

to latch on to.

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