Pacific

Pacific

By the scattered sun

of foggy

San Diego mornings,

perplexed in the

most obvious of delights,

watching the seagulls

pick bread,

from the sand.

 

And my toes are cold.

 

But shaded

under cold concrete,

the seaweed stained

shoreline,

being a wonderer

in treeless woods,

overturned;

blood in a steady supply.

 

I have yet

to hit my stride.

 

And the runaway,

eating from the garbage can,

takes a second look.

 

As I stand

to walk away.

 

Leaving my dreams

to the Pacific,

where the waters run deep.