They tock just like a metronome
beneath the spigot’s shiny chrome;
into the surface shining light
in bubbling doubling soapy white...
like legend from the Scottish deep
they rise from watershed to peek
at mountains growing by the shin
where fire lets St. Elmo in.
Both rounded nub and callous nail
upon the foaming sea they sail
into ceramic Oceanside
hot molecule and nerve collide...
ten soldiers aiming at the feet
to reconnoiter with the heat,
ten toes erect like Oscar’s mime
as faucet waterfall arrives,
bursting through the surface roil
bathing in the spray awhile.
They find a rhythm like a poem
and surface to the south of me;
then peering through the mounds of foam
they long to nail both calf and knee.
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