Below Waves

She sits and rocks
on white wisps
which warble and roll;
opal blobs rattle in the deep.

For a time there
is nothing but the normality
of a moon which flashes
booming teeth before stiff black.

The sky is a humming,
bracken wall and its
consistency appeals,
in spite of the infinite height.

Water rises when
swinging a tight, wet fist
and gaping broken,
bawling incisors to suck away noises.

Without warning the under
is a shell that heeds no
space for breath or
even a semblance of what had been before.

Liquid breath is short and sharp
until hands clutch, haul
away the veil
and the moon grins white and full once more.


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