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...
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