You measure each inchworm moment
because infinity is.
Useless instruments trace the scale
while space pulsates.
When you free your mind
to wander among the stars,
it doesn't stray very far.
You keep it on a retractable leash.
Too much freedom to roam the home of spheres,
and the lasers of a thousand suns
will tumble you wingless into a well
lined with funhouse mirrors.
So hard to shoot your roots deep into now.
Each fiber dissolves with a sigh.
Tomorrow breaches, reaches for breath.
When the ocean hits the shore
with a left uppercut blow,
the receding flow gobbles the gravel
and empty mussel shells,
supine punch-drunk boxers.
The Head referee waves the storm
back to its corner.
We wobble a bit out of focus
while we wait for the tsunami's
bellow to roll over us.
We bail and flounder,
yet repel the swells.
The water hovers and poses
for a brief sepia snapshot.
A Hand changes its course.
No intent to drown, merely to probe
for the next incoming round.