I smoke joints alone at three am, counting stars and scars,
sitting on the windowsill, blowing smoke rings at the outline
of the moon behind the sweeping clouds, the dark and
ashen strokes an eerie warning of the building storm.
The creature within my body that craves the changing tide
peels back my skin and breathes deeply, my terrarium heart
stirs with quiet life. Constellations poke holes in the altostratus gloom
and though the ocean is miles away I feel her gathering force.