A Purposed Learning Curve

This morning, verbs choke me.  
Startled up, tattered, and forgotten,
the floor falls, but I scrape myself up.
Poetry does not reveal itself so easily.

Finding my feel, I decide
to limit my face intake.
Forging through sea glass, dolphins,
and plastic by-products, you speak softly
of what I deserve.  Neither of us
picture ourselves in danger.

By mid-afternoon, we hang a soft sheet.
Birds huddle in the sun, half-asleep nearby.
We try and try.