The sandpipers yammer morse code
into the pink bubbly bend. The curving tide
patters lazy fingers over warm sand like
wiping sugar from a child’s bottom lip.
When the riotous sun careens into the breech,
bounces once like dolphins, and unravels,
thin ribbons of its pastel fire will float
across fumbling white foam, and the pipers
pluck shells of warmth from the divots
and tap them into the ground. Above, the night
is the surface of a twin sea. The stars
are the reflected bright holes of the pipers,
the world folded palm to palm so all things
are warmed with the nearness of each other

Avery Yoder-Wells
Latest posts by Avery Yoder-Wells (see all)

Leave a Reply