with the suggestion of shore,
a wave of potential.
A long road ahead. A beginning. An entrance.
First is springtime, bloom and bud and blossom.
First is blessing from fresh unbreath.
First is full, not hollow, not scraped and worn raw,
not down the the quick.
First is first, it is not last.
First does not last. First is promises
between barbed wire,
crossed lines and boundaries,
slippery like electric eels
through your lips,
off your tongue without
the buzz of foresight.
First is a mistook step off an unseen cliff,
blood and burn, thinking
that the thing you wanted was wanted,
that the thing you got was deserved,
that there was a reason for the new moon
turning its face away from you tonight.
You cannot undo first.