Tori McCandless: Past the Dunes

I went far past the dunes, passing through

a net of kelp that kept breaking, water the color

of pelt, a breathing lung. The spit of sand dislodged itself

and all of its purple seeped out. These were the latter days,

struck down with change, when we remembered nothing, left

boxes unopened then moved on, too entirely undone.

Did my shading grow fainter, the half yellow of half

of a sunflower? Each minute seemed to skim the surface,

our words just circled back on themselves, notched

in the wood again and again, until the grooves turned

into channels and we flooded out. Everything was

swallowed by the distance. But then again, everything was

shadow and iridescence, flickering through filtered

light, wet and heavy. The trawlers combing the

bottom of the ocean turned out to be another myth

and we were left on the shoreline.

           I had believed it was all in good faith. But structures had given way

          to a current that grew fat with time, like something

         I could raise or raze.

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