A lemonade somersault in the diorama

The sign read DRIFTING SAND
& who among us could resist
the zing strings & archaic filter-tips
to exfoliate like bent pieces of moonlight

                              tempting a nylon wall of silence

              in surfadelic beer can huaraches…

Whatever is going to happen as though it already has
              dark with turquoise bleeding pink along the horizon

I could just make out the slow waves breaking all glassy & clean inside the fog.   Paddling out, the fog thickened around me, & the muffled crash of waves.   I was spooked but pushed on.   As I positioned myself on the shoulder, little fish bumped against my neoprene encased legs.   I could easily die here, in the fog, alone, sitting on a fiberglass plank, bobbing like bait in the rocking green water.   It wouldn’t be so bad.