I feel myself attempt to settle into shifting grains,
but instead be pulled from this tide pool
where I keep circling,
stewing
in acrid, frothy brine;
the curdling shellfish
rotting in the sun,
baked into the jagged sand.
At least with the dream of a seaside romance,
a sunbleached driftwood
can hope to become
one with a glamorous boat,
even though it’s more likely
to be lifted by a tourist child,
to be displayed in a dusty corner
forgotten and alone
in their house.