we’re pausing, transiting through and across and above and below inscrutable black curtains. this is progress. i am now afraid of a train on the tracks; or afraid when i can see its face, when i can feel its wind, hear its shrill call of heralding, of destruction. this is progress.

fear is new, and it covers me, ants on an anthill. frogs on a log. fentanyl on the streets. water, on the flood lands. i’m replete with fear, a stranger that greets me on every corner. most think fear is adversarial, but the absence of fear is death.

the absence of fear is a life suspended.

one layer left from dark days
another from bright
sediment and scoring
from empty nights

each layer is a record
each layer is a part
these phases end
as new phases start

the shoreline is imperfect
the shoreline is alive
the shoreline has seen eons
the shoreline has survived