Edge

They told me the distance would help,

that the line where the blue hits the gray

would make my own problems feel small,

like a piece of dried kelp.

But the tide is just a mouth that won't close.

It pushes a gray, bubbling foam up the sand,

thick and yellow like spit on a chin.

It smells of things rotting in rows.

A family left a single sneaker behind,

stiff with salt and half-buried in grit.

The water reaches for it and then changes its mind,

leaving the tongue to dry out in the wind.