Sweet
I swear
I wrote
four individual
poems after work
today at the beach
that were maybe ok
I remember an inkling
of inspiration inking the
stationary I brought along
with a Dylan Thomas book
of poetry— which honestly
bummed me out— dude’s always
writing about death and yammering about
heart bones and heron bones and weird sh.. stuff that he shapes
and it makes me fully aware that the hard surface
I’m sitting on, the giant rock jutting from the water, is killing my ass bone
and I have to stand and when I stand I glance at the people milling around on land then back to the ocean and it makes me want to dive in the swelling waves of salty froth, swim down to the sandy bottom, and see if I can pull up that rare oyster withholding a pearl, emerge from the depths for a deep breath and scream clutching it in my palm, wading, victorious