Sea Stack

Rialto Beach

I hope you'll meet me in a moment of saline lucidity.

When I'm not depressed by the distressed furniture hulking on these sandy floorboards like flotsam tumbled and spat ashore by history's turbulence.

Ice-spun mist flows and ebbs like nutrient-rich tides, lapping at my sudden transparency.

It may mean a fight if I'm to admit that an insoluble boulder could describe the surge of my current.

Equipped with parasitic seed pods, I strew my children of espionage into the wet wind. They report to me with deep sea sonar and a huge margin of error.

I peer into what happens next, a sailor's prayer for a red moon tonight, and wonder how many regrets about the unfinished are required for advanced placement in the afterlife.

I agree it's unfair to pose scenarios with pre-projected outcomes -- skewing toward a rocky outcropping of self-fulfilling prophecy, no matter how grotesque the shaping desires of my ocean.

I want to camouflage the sinkhole entrance to this surging wound with bleached tree branches and detached fronds of seaweed in the hope you'll fall in.