Not blossoms

but anemones

the intimacy of this sand

I am lost

or windswept or

untragically misunderstood

tell me

the story of being put into a mouth

and taken out whole

yet grown smaller somehow

so in the end

all the many many grains

are only tastebuds sprouting

a flowering in the throat

a hollowness

a limp windsock and lost children

I had sand in my cavernous

molars while writing

you into the beachscape

the driftwood is overloved

and I dreamed it so hard

I dreamt it away

with my hands

unrelentingly

right down to the groundwater.