If it is right, it can be done. If it is wrong, it can be done without.

Where is the line?
It once was bold—

beautiful, prominent,
obvious.

Now it’s seafoam,
curdling at the edge
then retreating. Not

a shifting goalpost—
still a kind of marker—
but not this.
This is no marker,

just the transient
white of bubbles:
within, outside,
upon, beneath

me.