Seventy-nine: Head Last

The face of the sea is dented
by all the brackets trapping
all the words I do not say.

I want you to read between the seaweed,
catch me like a falling starfish.
But only if you’re sure, you see.

Ripple me this; part the parentheses,
fish for the shipwrecked pleasure.
Blow. Spin me like a windmill.

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Published by

Alexia

I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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