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