Beneath the salty sky,
clouds sweat their stories
as the sun skims them
with its glaucomic eye,
yawns, then retires.
The white feather of a seagull
the bookmark that always slips
from view. Lands atop a navy
blue umbrella where it hitches
a ride to destinations unknown:
a quaint cafe, a plush heather
sofa, or a cherry sleigh bed
draped in Egyptian cotton sheets.
Places where stories are absorbed
like rain on skin. Every empty
pore transformed into a puddle.
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