Swell
Poetry. PNW. Sand. Surfing.
Photo by Nikolay Vorobyev on Unsplash
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.



Oooo, this bit '...the spices of the sky...'