J: Tide

"I wish the sea would come right in and wash all this away."

Someone is humming.
Someone is lining a grill pan with foil.
Someone is playing timpani well.

The horizon is having its hair cut.
The horizon is a mouth with a white moustache.

It gapes.
It clamps down upon seaside towns,
French kissing the bays,
juggling caravans and cows,
until all we know is submerged.

In underground bunkers,
(we knew it was coming;
we asked for it,)
poetry is written in salt
and sealed in bottles and
released into the sea.

We are NASA,
we are dandelions,
we are red balloons.