Timid toes

Timid toes trace twin lines in the sand where I stand
between in no-man’s land, twisting and
meandering through the minefield
you set each day with shifting borders. I retreat
from high trajectory words
you wield. I cross over, twisting
into rifle deeds of despair. I slip away
into encroaching waters. I slip under
your raised hand. I cease
to understand,
to exist. In time,
in tide, all will be
washed away, and I
washed clean.

Originally published at blindrapture.blogspot.com on April 26, 2016.