by Edward Ahern
I know before I cross the dune,
the tide has slithered out again,
and purged its wafts of seaweed rot,
once-shelled life, and foraged fish.
Below the dune the smell defines,
the mud, the rocks, the pungent dead,
the plants now weeping iodine.
The ocean clears its throat,
and spits into the clouds.
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