the boar tide's tusks
are rustling the leaves
wetting their own depth perception
& thrusting through
the stony home
where water's never meant to go,
rushing to extend its reach
****** the supposed beach
& BUSTING belly-first beyond these gravel streets.

so we find new ways to walk
new walkways made of taller rocks,
& softer steps in soggy socks,
because oftentimes the tidal clock is off:
a salmon holocaust with just
a solemn, hollow cough
as the waves are burped & swallowed
& lost among the blue disease...