OLD PACIFIC
And who did not love
the palpitating clouded ocean.
The first damp hit,
deep in the opportunistic caverns of odor.
But who loved the smell
of stranded starfish twisting
slowly
in the saline kelp.
The smell of life eroding,
drawing back
across erosive beaten rock,
leaving pools of small intrigues.
A hint of squamous rotting flesh.
Carrion cries of barnacled joy.
Cycles resurrecting ancient lives,
extolling an intuitive erudition
of existence.
A deeper, dappled sixties yellow
pervades the desiccated remains.
Dried and placed in a small rope basket.
Testament to the unpolished brass memory
of that first sopping moment.
The twilight dune grass
blows inland,
heralding the vast maelstrom.
Secretive leviathans awake in the depths.
Under currents explode against the jetty,
towards the little leaning beach house
of the soul.
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