Hunter most hunted

An old story with an old beginning

It is heartache that separates us from them —
but what about the anthill?
What about the dust of the daffodil I kill by mistake?

How do I make it right?
Tonight
I kiss the water in my hands and think of getting you
to land

me as your oar
or a jewel
lost on the ocean floor

these words mean nothing
because I see now what I never could before
rowing constantly towards an ever-moving shore

Hell
is getting exactly what you asked for
and keeping it just out of reach
the banality of evil stretching on like a fake beach

I feel I’ve said these words before I even speak
have stripped the sky bird by bird
unlearned you sand by grain of dirty earth

Myself finally unmasked
seeing the world only for its grass
the perfect water black as glass

      only a raindrop to me
but to an ant

the whole sea