Morning after, appetite
satisfied
temporary stasis, the ebb tide
revealing the beach, wet sand,
shells, space
to build a castle, wet below
the tide line, sand scooped,
plastic shovels building moats,
a fortress wall, spires dribbled through silty fingers,
wet drops drying into towers,
the luxury of the moment,
sunshine and distant, lapping waves,
gentle low-tide ripples
singing to the moon, a sorceress
weaving water, pulling the ocean
out to sea, briny, a rocking cradle
sparkling, turning, returning,
crashing closer, waves rising and cresting
until I feel the pull
on the back of my knees.
I mount the rising water, ride it in,
crashing into castles.
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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