Look there, at that torn edge of the wave, ripping white across the horizon.
Over here, the foam bubbles over the scalloped edge of lace lapping sand, teasing it darker, wetter.
We dig for cochina, periwinkles, and sing out for Robin to bring more beer
while fiddler crabs scurry away under the jagged wings of gulls.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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