I miss standing at the edge of the sea.
The foamy carcasses of now-rotting seaweed that
dogs always take such care
to smash their furry hides into.
Delicately dabbing a bit of
seagull shit on top, too.
Plovers popping up
and down the shoreline,
losing their games of chicken against
the tide’s rolling belly-laughs.
Water muting rocks clattering and
every once in a while–
a tinkling of blue or even
purple (anything but green or brown)
glass that has traveled
maybe miles, maybe feet,
through salt and sun to find itselftucked up under this patch of drying sand,
softened and rounded
by the dark, full ocean.