Water Margins

Dawn, a bed comes ashore, dripping and fog laden. Tuna sandwiches float on foaming waves of nausea, aqueous globs of salty oils, surface. Punctured sea-dreams float; flabby and flatulent. The day paddles around aimlessly, tides, rather than wait, slosh about spongy ankles. A rubber flipper mislaid off the Normandy coast, slipstreams through time, one lost sand-encrusted flip-flop bobs on by. May have to snorkel longer if there is any hope of seeing the sun sink. Eventually aquatic ghosts depart for a younger past. Back on the swaying deck of a queasy reality a fresh wind dries sheets. Footprints in the sand are spied through a fisheye lens. A shipwrecked yesterday is waving, glad to be finally rescued.