Water Margins

Dawn, and my bed comes ashore, dripping fog-laden fronds. I feed my mind manna of minced shark and Barracuda. I dislike tuna, so I make a tuna sandwich; wet foaming waves, aqueous globs of salty oils, some mayo. I must be waterlogged by sea-dreams. The day swims around aimlessly, time sloshes. A rubber flipper once lost off the Normandy coast, briefly surfaces; one sand-encrusted flip-flop floats by. I may have to snorkel if I am ever going to see the sun go down.