9/30 recede.

Recede.

The settled sand storms
you tip-toe will rise again.
Once they have dried the fluid and moving part of you,
saved only the salt, they will rise up again, for they do not settle,
have not forfeited their sting.
Sleeping dragons side by side look like horizon,
one you dance upon in pursuit of new warmth.
But your legs are boomerangs, steps self-addressed,
they come back swinging with the same inferno teeth
that past perforated your heart.
Dragons are all in our heads, you don’t get to watch them die
in this lifetime, so recede back west.
Recede. Into the Pacific.
Pacific sounds like specifics, and before you crawl
confident over beaches you need to figure some of those out
and see not all of them are out at sea. Some are landlocked,
only found when we throw enough self into the shoreline
to come out rivers learning topography after kindled dragons
return to sleep, settling the typhoons in our restless spirit.