Water to the Neck

Grains scrape my kneecaps red,
Raw in pushing, flavored as scabbed skin,
It’s Thursday and the sand tastes moist,
Here at twilight’s shell, seaborne mist
Fumes across my nostrils, shoved lightly
But pulled out beyond the horizon,
I was tired, bent ahead and weighted
At the cool liquids easing these old layers,
My bones as red as ever, striking to catch
The curve of the frothy tumult,
Crashed to my waist, iced in November yet
Soaking the desert heatstroke
That gives my wild eyes pause while
I tap fingers of gold, mixed in cloud circles,
Where my toes edge with delight
And jitter in swirls to keep time still.