The spit of land curved out into the ocean like a cow jaw
kicked up in the woods. I couldn’t pick up fear and shake it off,

but in a ‘can do’ way, yes I could,
and then yes I was

exiting the fang, my far away vacation cottage,
one of the jaw’s remaining teeth,

and walking that bone with a pill bug, disturbed
but still attached, come around, come top-side.

And then, in that squinty, mist-heightened ocean light,
congregated with other pill bugs,

though most of them blew along
in their protective balls. A few, though, stopped,

unballed. “It’s a perfect day for it,” one stretching out said.
“Won’t you ball up and blow along with me?”

I couldn’t refuse.
“We don’t believe in bone,” said the pill bug,

as we balled along, “instead in its likenesses
to bigger things.” “Like I was saying,” I said.

“Like you were saying what?” the bug said.
“Like a spit,” he said, “we infirmly hold a place in this world.

So why would you say that
the wind bites, say that about anything

that helps move us along?”
“Did I say that?” I asked, and came unballed.

“Not yet,” he said, as he blew ahead,
“but I feel it coming.”