Hunting for Treasure in Rising Tide

There is no direction
no preparation
and I am not quite sure how to respond
to nothing –
a sentence hanging,
a letter unsigned,
a poem deliberately unrhymed
mind codes deliberately
laid for play..
So, how to say it?
..convey a clutching for the breathing
with a sudden screaming,
with a slamming on of brakes

I dream I’m drowning
so I go back to poetry –
words that were there at the beginning
They are tiny shells and glass
In plastic buckets now
and I need a floatation device,
not happy-childish art supplies

I make a castle anyway –
perhaps the tide will only make it
glisten with the wet;
not drown it dragged away
Perhaps we will
withstand the sea
(you are the ocean god, you know!)
…with your salty waves, your beach

I hold out my offering
(in fantasy, X marks the spot!);
but in the real world
devoid of these metaphors
the map is seen as sillier than a simile;
more useless than a hackneyed likeness
in a maudlin poem might be

I am not sure how to respond
to your cutting
quickly
to the chase –
to the slipply-slop dissmisal
the judgment of my days of honeyed waste
…or to the lingering tastes,
or the way you turn away
with the haste one might pursue a flat grey train,
bound to a destination where toil is
underpaid.

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Hunting for Treasure in Rising Tide

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