Spring Cleaning


Smooth stones in itchy winter coats float down the bay and around the slope

of lost seasons and picture frames lost in flood plains

of you, holding on to me with strong shoulders, so near your boiling point.

Tire chains were attached and caught on dirty fishing line

call out my name with each creature swimming by,

it carries its message back and fourth to me and to anyone who might lend an ear,

Reaching out

and grasping

for off-chance of health and holding on to keep from pulling under.

Into the depth of the sea we roll,

around each other’s bodies

and through every siren call,

brushing against small feet and chlorophyl.

Here, we know ourselves better.

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