Crest

I forget how good it feels
to find your breath,
submit air free passage

to your lungs,
and bring buoyancy
back to the body.

It’s been years, how I’ve lived,
as a rising wave crest
that never breaks.

Boulder

There’s a man who drags a boulder through town.
The rock is three times his size. Chains connect the two,
stone and man, each of twenty links, tied to his ankles.
His slow steps heave the weight just an inch at a time,
trailing a deepened path behind of crumbled tarmac
exposing earth and dirt. Every morning he comes,
walks one way with the stone, and then the other.
You can hear him coming. Coughing. Wheezing.
His groans paired with morning hustle, sounding
loud for every old bone and worn muscle he has,
for the holes in his shoes, the rash on his chest.

There’s a man who drags a boulder through town.
No one knows his name, no one knows where lives,
and no one stops to help him pull his weight.