You are the surf that rises
to the bright crest of the day,
the shell road at low tide
and the moon above the bay. Continue reading “The Bright Crest”
Tag: beach
Sand Handle
We pulled on the handle
And went down to live with the crabs,
Burrowing in four-feet deep
To crusty water, the smell
Of ocean death and pincher,
Taste of ancestors crowding darkness,
The message of being sunk
Foundering us in the brine.
I have always wanted
To know what would happen
If I opened that door.
–Shaun Perkins
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 