The Hermit

I wonder

what it’s like

to be you,

claws and all

attentive

only to a tidepool

beneath this sky

of-all-things

I envy your

pocketless-ness

and the other folds

you lack

for collecting

trepidations

there is no

malignancy of words

in shallow water

no dashed hopes

no fickle dreams

it’s just you

-solitary-

spinning

with a sand swirl

when the tide comes in

expecting nothing of

expectations