Not Home For Dinner

not flailing or sinking
but sunk in fact
the gritty taste and glassy substance
of sand already found its way into the
crevasse between molars and gums
underneath the tongue
salty and chipping away.

we all were driftwood
searching for a beach to land
and at least be buried.

some shore, somewhere
smoothed glass lays among the trillions
of specks being home and gently rubbing
until the top of the once broken bottle remains
lovely after submission

I can see, I am not blind.

your patchwork tongue
can keep you on dry land forever,
but it will never be home.