
Look there, at that torn edge of the wave, ripping white across the horizon.
Over here, the foam bubbles over the scalloped edge of lace lapping sand, teasing it darker, wetter.
We dig for cochina, periwinkles, and sing out for Robin to bring more beer
while fiddler crabs scurry away under the jagged wings of gulls.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
I'm a weirdo nerd who’s extremely subversive. I like rocks, incense, and all kinds of witchy stuff. Intrusive rhyme bothers me.
I’m known as Dena Brown to the revenuers and pollsters.
MA English literature, College of Charleston




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