I stand at the rabid line
that divides solid from deep,
nicked feet braced against
receding equilibrium,
heels sucked by ancient force.
The moon is slung high,
velcroed to a starless drape.
It makes a watery mirror
that reflects a bluish hue;
indigo salt tears my eyes.
The view is vast, unknown.
I am reminded of Russian lore;
Beware of mad dogs lurking,
for lurking they shall bite,
and biting, shall bite again.
The sun pushes moon,
a white disc behind the mist.
Break laps my toes like hungry curs.
I pull my feet from their reluctant mouths,
make my way back home.
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