the sea splits its trousers
the sea splits its trousers
a rip as long as the long curves
tear back along the white repair
sitting just there on the flotsam line
with a wet behind and feet drawn up
on the jagged rocks black there
standing on a feather and the broken shells
walking backward along the bladder wrack
popping the questions can you see it
the magic fish the red crab on the horizon
of my return in jest upon a white horse
charging no fee to gallop along
into the sunset of a red beaming
or the dawn of the such and such
of a surreal realisation
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