5. 

		    Cars roll by on Oystermouth Road, headlights gleaming, 
					heading home from work, as if 
	      nothing is happening. No time to feel it — 
		   hung on the hook of wage work (children, food, rent, endless fucking 
	                          rent...), or, like me, hunting for wage work. 

Not the Round — 

	   where periwinkle mantle scours the tide pool floor, 
					             builds a spiral from dead matter 
					                   (plant/animal/mineral),
   
			  		            sea body whorled from sea body —  

but the numbing Routine: 

		                                get two for one, starting at 69 pounds

      Red oak leaf on the wing, skipping over the thousand cast-offs
						                                    along the strand line,
 
				           unconnected, 
				       orbiting themselves,
 
					   one and one, 
				        and two-for-one,
 
      slipping out of all the spaces we created on the cheap. Things
		                     riding with us to work, following us home. Things
		  going on as Before (clinging to the Routine
					   	              that believes in After). 

	      Dark mouth of a lone shoe in the brush above the dunes.    

Christien Gholson  | Tidal Flats 6
Contents | Mudlark No. 63 (2017)