Sick today, suspended
in a saline sea. Whole eons
in which I have no memory
who I am. Then the task
is remembered from Future Self:
come, get here, find me.
So I’m walking,
scouring the beach
for any sign which direction
Future Self sailed off in.
Along the way, I am
scavenging what I need:
thread, to bundle
& parcel the soul;
scissors to snip;
& the soul—
has he sent the soul back?
(it is a crab, dainty & afraid)
The soul is dainty, afraid.
