Bottled Message

Editor back-issues, poetry

The red shred of linen cuts Mountains into halves and Dyes the sand crimson black, Burning holes into copper chests. Brackish wind, no, waves.   Tides can’t decide. They Run away only to come back. Dry water shimmery reflects Bulging eyes, singed black. Roasting jellyfishes. Die.   The air tight, sand collapse. Suffocating reds don’t do Bottled messages, leaving Crumbling…

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