By: Madison Root
Cold rocks,
tumbling over
each other.
Down the steep shoreline
liquid obsidian tar waves gurgling,
bits of trapped gold light
twinkling through.
Oil rigs standing,
gaily lit
dazzling
Christmas trees,
Stars drizzling
down like
dirty,
glistening
snow.
Heavy pier legs
trembling, swaying
Against melodic vibrations
of the ocean current,
Waves slapping
erratically
into its own
body,
Calmly bubbling
and fizzing into soapy white,
capturing the crooked moonlit path.
Indigo night air seeping in
hands hot
folding into shallow
jacket pockets,
Wind glacial against tip of the nose
Kicking damp cool sand into shoes
Catching between thin socks and toes—grainy
musky earthy seaweed smell resting residually in the lungs.
Crescent
moon
hanging on
wispy fog
diluting
canary yellow
shimmer hiding
in pier lamps,
all 25 of them.
I counted.
