I know every inch of this island
and can’t stand the sight of it.
I flinch at the hills and the
tips of the trees as they rise
from the valleys I visit each day.
I stare at the storms at sea
from the edge of the bay.
The last of the settlers sailed away
in clearer waters and days of yore,
before the storms made leaving shore
I could disrobe and walk into the sea to
drown in my inadequacies,
or starve until I eat myself in hope of
© Sam Hunt, 2018