Clandestine Seaside
The sea pulls down the sky into these hands,
where it melts in strands upon my skin.
and spits its broken salt towards the land
before the foam from the brine spreads too thin.
While morning comes in a dozen fragments,
the sun sits alpine in its land of prisms.
Gulls squawk and divide in perfect alignment
while sweeping down to devour earth's sustenance.
Lighthouse in the clouds, so primitive and worn,
perched on top the hillside, in a languid sleep.
Driftwood oscillates from amongst the waves,
its details adorned on the shore, bunched in a heap.
The waves roll and weave, evenly from the tide.
This small island on the coast, a clandestine seaside.
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