Tayve Neese

What the conch spoke

when she was lost
in sea dunes with only the bite of sun —

it echoed from its pink chamber. 

Let the tide take him. The sky,

the ocean is broad,

begs for your surrender.
Ahead of you, brine, green-blue

water, a tern held up by nothing
but its own feathers.

Suspended on wind, the alchemy
of your life

to fall in love with.