Beachcomber Gone Rogue

I caught a tide-pool fish between my fingertips.
Its scaly skin simmered in glitz.

Near the harbor, I pick at my stringy shorts.
Boats sail by with familiarity.

Relapse to recap, returning memories tingle this body I call mine.
I keep shells in vanity vain, protecting selfless beauty from hara-kiri.

Shear pocket knives clip away at stupid seams.
I hate the way the boy over there looks at me.

Otters’ kelp appear on the wet sands.
I pretend that they originate within the underwater volcanic forests.

With summertide at my ship-sunken knees,
I run through the soiled pebbles, screaming scratched grey.

Like a seagull, I outstretch my arms
And open up my heart to the ocean’s arrow.

Boys can disrupt the archipelago.
They’re vulgar mouths move too much.

Bothered by sound, I reach the core of the reefs.
Scuba-diving around land and partial sea.

Messages in bottles haunt the boardwalk bottom.
I plunder their lyrics, oh so solemn.

So I fall headfirst into fantasy,
Like a beachcomber gone rogue.


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