• quiveringink 49w

    The perfect day for orange juice

    The sea extends from my arms
    To the shore and the mirage
    Of horizon that flows
    In the limbs of sand
    Carrying the debris of graceless
    Dead. Hoped seagulls fish full of
    Beaks flying. The yellow leaving stains
    That finally is bronze
    With the violence of insects
    And the blue packet of seaweed chips
    Curled around my toes,
    Flapping against my ankles.