OLD COAST TWILA NEIWERT
Sand-speckled, windswept constellations are forming in the rolled cuff of my jeans, grit against my scalp and scoured skin. Cold wind off curling wave, sweeping sand into spirals, eternal, older than water. If I smiled, glittering mica, sea-ground shell, pulverized once-sea-creature would stick to the lines of my teeth outlining the bone curve in loose silver.
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