Swell

Poetry. PNW. Sand. Surfing.

Photo by Nikolay Vorobyev on Unsplash

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In the fog, the outside is unpainted.

You’re tan rope in dry beach grass.

You’re alive. You rode here on the creek

of your mind, down the base of a mountain

to a narrow valley of smoked sand. The distance

from whom you must be to “get on” and “take care”

is only half listening. Waves hit the beach

and carry boots and booze full circle to

a sack of books. All the nets around you are left

on the shore. You’re on the board. You catch a swell.

You yell, “Oh, hell!” and drop through the spices of the sky.

You rip outside the edges of logs, rocks, and debris.

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