fallen

Epic dune faces tower jagged and broken,
leaving roots from cloned sea oats vulnerable and open
to the hands of angry-drunk hurricane winds,
And I am small.
The horizon is painted sunless in shades of slate
On a canvas of black cloud over pitch dark water.
The salt-brine air is soured, sick with decay,
And sticks thick in the throat like rancid honey.
The late September sea stings with toxic tentacles
And bites with tiny diamond teeth,
Roaring in agitated wrath at an empty beach.
Augmented waves rise up in rage to rape the shore,
again and again and again,
stripping it layer by once luminous layer
as the receding water foams and hisses,
Damp discolored curves evidence of forced kisses.
I fight the breakers to find her fury and she pulls me down.
The taste of fish piss lingers with salt on the back of my tongue
As my lungs fill with ocean bile and languidly
I succumb.