Rapture
Grainy images are rough to touch
Infused with bladderwrack holes
of shores and coves
beige mermaid purses open within each
With every stride of the tide
and every salt-pillar wave, dissipating;
nothing but the foam belonged to us
mousse of white breath
the urchins had no chance
I remember
you used to tweeze away
their thorny cocktail sword arrangement
so swiftly snatching,
cracking the middle open: centifolia
There is no smell like the sea
There is no taste without rapture -
cuttle fish bones
breaking like butter,
cutting through coral
And with each passing shell
longshore chemtrails twist behind me
I never pick them up
I live to break some pulp