Sea grass spears dim wind,
green velocity’s serrated fin.
About the sated sea.
About the bone-glass beach.
We want a fish’s soft
bones of belief,
bright white smells
I open eyes wide to believe
anything is glass—white striped black,
the chemical breeze.
Here’s a phantasm in tropic paint:
an egret wheeling
into god’s metal wing.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
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