Beached
At the watermark
the line is drawn,
there, the sharp cool clearness
of a torquoise mirror marines me,
while I bend to pick up
Chinamen's fingernails
with the blinding Sun on my back,
I consider my life,
it has gone up in flames
licking my capricious mind
with contemptuous poetry, and
now this is what I live and breathe,
it has come to this,
oh what a catastrophe, a writer
on a beach,
beached,
subtidally half-buried
sheltered in sand,
what creature lived inside
that solen vaginoid exterior
now cast off
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Copyright © Candide Diderot | Year Posted 2024
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment