A Million Tiny Chasms
Along the green gulf, frothy morning sands scuttle with
white crabs, nervous zigzags who draft faint tracks in the first
light, disappear in shallow hovels. My youngest drags his heel
backwards, thwarting pinched escapes. Ghosts dig tunnels
at night. He shudders with what might live within. So, we fill them,
and the sun heaps heavy breath on miles of beach ahead.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry - all hoping to create a home. His poetry can be found at https://mattleemiller.wixsite.com/poetry.