A wisp of grass
is growing
from a hole
in a concrete block.

The waves beat themselves
silly
against the seawall
which never moves.

When an insect
is crawling on my arm,
I gently blow it off
into the hurricane breeze.

In a world like this,
Dear Heart,
Do you really think you have
any understanding
or control?

(c) Michael Anuszkiewicz 2017