the tide rises, the tide falls | an oceanic literary magazine

before i drown,
let me swim...

His hands smell of anemone and mushrooms
on a spring morning...

the tide washed you in today
and I picked you up from still wet sand...

There is no visible horizon,
only sky and hinted at sea...

Arrived here without compass,
having tumbled, pilotless, along...

Coastlines lie in wake
from memories we've made...

The ocean itself is a siren. I’ve been creeping closer
for years. Rooted in the black prairie earth...

I use pastels. Blues, smeared
with grey, white, some amethyst...

Weary and on a fishermen’s boat, cap pulled down over eyes. Do you remember when we...

Under the bridge are the Welsh Grounds,
shadows below the surface...

To and from a river: a stone,
agate; a starving winter sky...

I dreamt
the oracle of oceans...