December 7th
Seasonal pinnipeds
we hitch toward the familiarity
of the sound
collecting things:
sanded glass, bone homes
walk barefoot over
broken shells and limpets
the sting of flotsam
in each summer step
a cold irony,
jumping in and then out
Surrounded by water we don’t swim here.
Seasonal pinnipeds
we hitch toward the familiarity
of the sound
collecting things:
sanded glass, bone homes
walk barefoot over
broken shells and limpets
the sting of flotsam
in each summer step
a cold irony,
jumping in and then out
Surrounded by water we don’t swim here.