© 2008 Kevin Gillam

flottle

and sea breathes louder,
out in creeds of spume, gulls in
squabble for full stops.

you wish you were up there, all
warm updrafted and
weightless. oceans — who draws the

dotted lines? found a
bottle once, flung off Cape Town,
read the message but

scrawl of weed said more. does sand
tire of this rush then
suck? 'flottle' — best word for it,

while tonight, moon brushed orange,
in no mood for rhyme