Like dirt trapped in pores
like curse words frozen in cement
intertwined with dust and bread crumbs
and avian feathers
when I lay my pores
upon my feather filled pillows
all the separated thoughts of the sun
re-embed as my sweat embeds
with the cotton of my bed
reminding me that the divide
doesn’t exist
when the black tsunamis roll up
after each sunny earthquake
the salt will always
dig into the crevices of the rocks
at least turning daggers into sea glass.