alfie lee writing



The passage of sand between
was not what i had thought
it would be. Temper-shattered shards,

jags, a thousand invisible cuts, not
soft and white-powdery, sparkling like
time past. The sea nerved under its solar

plexus, sun-blind, spasm
spit of froth and fritter of flotsam and plastic
and all that refuse to be broken

and decomposed. You summon from shore
on yesterday's news paper spread. Ocean-
winded, boned and panged, my teeth

chattering on and on on
grit and tang of salt. The wings
you fed were overnighted

stale and lead. The sunblast orange soda
tasted caustic can. I want us always to be
happy and to claim this beach day from the wipe

of tide, of progress but the sea's reset
now, another ten minutes off off
fresh tarmac, and i am lost on it.


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