Swelling, swelling, up-
rising, slow and sad and soft
through throaty silence
cycling, circling up-
wards rolling over and under
and over my tongue
like the annual up-
welling of warm, rich
El Nino’d water
churned out
from the depths of the sea
(a healthy catastrophe)
your memory surfaces
and, choking on salt water, I
gently puke you out t’wards shore.
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