the tide rises, the tide falls | an oceanic literary magazine

Slag glass, hag stones, sand-smoothed bottles
with eruptions of barnacles, slugs of metal...

In my dreams, cerulean dye drips down my face, over my shoulders, onto the dock,
as Neptune stirs, floods navy blue, and the pines along the gravel road back to the wine-store...

mother watches tides swell along the coastline of goa.
we pick mangoes & wade into shallow cerulean water...

She was still beautiful, it was only that
up close people look less like mirror...

before i drown,
let me swim...

His hands smell of anemone and mushrooms
on a spring morning...

crashing waves
by the rocks...

That polite enormity:
see it from the shore...

Give me conch shell hearts,
and seaside larks...

I float facing the same direction as the dying sun. It sinks
at approximately 8:22 p.m., bleeding itself out over the...

The ocean itself is a siren. I’ve been creeping closer
for years. Rooted in the black prairie earth...

I use pastels. Blues, smeared
with grey, white, some amethyst...