i went swimming in a clutch of mangrove trees and came out with salt for hair

the trees did not want me to leave, their roots spacious and promising to make me carbon,

but my feet were deep in mud and i snatched for shore past brackish water to breathe

i laid on my back and labored constellations for my heroes from four visible stars, my

clothes drying on abandoned boat trailers softly assaulted by the surf

horseshoe crabs tugged at loose threads from my shirt that only spoke of amsterdam. it

was kelly green and attracted many compliments, but i didnt need it anymore

i had disproven evolution as farsighted hubris, writing my equation with the flame from a

plastic lighter, leaving my life/s work of glass at daybreak

Brendan Connolly writes stuff. He lives in New York City.