Hush,

Let me rest on the far reaches of the beaches,

Where the ghost crabs stealthily grab at the trash

In the heat. 

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Oh my god, it’s such a mess, like the foam on the crest

Of the wave that crashes to earth on the sand in the surf.

Everything that rises must float. 

‍

And when something floats it bobs around like a boat,

Tossed on the waves of the sea, never resting, never free. 

Everything that floats never sinks,

‍

Unless it breaks and takes everything down with a gush

To the ocean floor where it bobs and totters no more. 

Everything that sinks stays very still. 

‍

And so, please,

Let me rest in the deepest reaches of the ocean;

Let the ghost crabs pick at my pale flesh. 

Everything dies.