He saw it everywhere.
The inevitable folding of a wave,
the patient flood of lava
traveling toward him.
He saw birds die in flight,
felt a leaf release itself in his stomach.
We become rock, he thought.
The sun, somewhere, is always rising
and setting. The earth bubbles,
driving a volcanic neck
smoking from the ocean.
No island is an island,
he said. There is no new land,
just the same body broken open.
Photo by John Westrock on Unsplash