Rustic mist floats over waves,

A squealing pitch masked. Its dry taste tars the tongue like ink.

Sailer’s custard maps the birds mind,

with wings holding pencils across seas of paper factories.

Scribbling, patching, scratching out eyeballs.

Dark thrills the mind manipulates like sand, ravenous talons insue--

once smiles, now waves of tears rage against our sand castles.

glass capsules rise from the endless reef,

Screaming for air.

sky emerges, submerged in urgency, pushing the others down,

A cap for hate, a cap for wondrous love, angelic fear, crashing anger.

I’d spend a lifetime whisking them from seawater and delving into their woes.