Tide in rusted chains pulled
by the shore
till every wave gasped and fell,
in the drinking dark- plunged its
hands into the
sea through the salt face- water to
quench its thirst.
One by one drops then few- dry as
through the seabed crawled till every
bone in clay,
oh! the wanting moon, its enemy- old
as water wears
the black shawl- nothing left of the sea
but its sound.
Copyright © 05/24/2016 lance sheridan