ye are the salt of the ocean

A wishy-washy bedtime bebop story
drowns in the waves split by the breath of seagulls
The last radio DJ is leaving the island astride a jellyfish
I can’t decide whether a dearth of narration is fishy or not
I don’t even remember what that ocean looks like
Piles of wet books on the beaches untouched by fastidious winds
Uncut pineapples, helicopters digested by whales
Hours of listening to the clocks impaired by the salt

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