Non-Erotic PoetrySpring TideIt’s an extra low tide
when the moon draws
oceans close to her breast
revealing unexplored floor.
We walk a mile of naked beach,
silent stretch to the breakers’
faint thunder. Sand-stranded starfish
lie wrapped in shrouds of seaweed,
curled in dry agony too late
for tidal liberation, their struggle
for survival over.
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