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Jeremy Schmidt

Slump-gold reappears flashing and pulls us up.
Exactly. The flips quaver in a trail
made by capsized glass, we figure.

A butterfly cameras through the jetty. Shining,
her glass tail flung, she arms the cavalry
to the throat. There surfaces follow.

The dissolving surf and sand are shadow
of a boat, quartz or silver, submerged
in and on the crests of an imitation slur.

Our own most touched up bottom found
a kaleidoscope front for regnant breath.
Look: the clutching and the searched among.

A shouldered jet projected in front of a sea
waves her over to the casual burning.
Where home seems, salt is.