1.7.18

Standard

This particular ocean,
is deep and deliciously pissed off.

You stand for hours noticing
the particular waves
and think your way up
the treble clef your wonderment is,
undulating, exhaling,
you’re a real poet now.

Overhead, the cumulus
have attained class-consciousness,
no easy hat trick.
Whispers are wanting.

While you dribble down the shore,
a fragment of some shell
bites you deep and lingers.

How ’bout that blood?

-r. miller

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