We surf questions with more speed,
But answer slower those who need.
I had hoped one word translated
Would cheer like fans elated,
But I fear receivings-snapped ‘cross the stratosphere
Are only leavings-trapped thoughts of “had us cared,”
And although sent as moments of the heart,
With quickness and movements off the chart, In sickness we slowly sift deeper drifting apart.
O’ if could we surf back, look skyward to a chorus of ocean doves,
So would they fly, track, carry for us utterings of loves.
And perhaps only then, our chances slim,
The world would hang ten and be in trim.