I am troubled for her. I want an anchor to hold and keep her from dashing upon the rocks. There’s been time and room to navigate these challenges, to circle and play, to figure eight, collide the waves.
The surface stretches out like a canvas.
I have numbers to make sense of it.
I have broken her into lines.
Now it is late and the wind picking up. Consonants are overthrowing consonants. All must be sealed and lashed for the night. The vowels are howling. Hoping to withstand the harshest critique.
She has to hold.