The spirit swims in
shallow beds made
by torrents of tides
whetting rocks, swirled inland.
Riddled in pools sharded
by years of pounding surf.
Teeming with agents
picking the bones
of poems left in tidal pools
gathered in pockets
Sea foam stinking the shore.
Gurgling glass reflecting the
etherial ocean and glaring fire
warming the combing graves.
While trapped within sharded
pools, thoughts- the stranded fish-
bait the scavengers,
picking the bones of poems
left behind
In the surf.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem