by Tyler Kline

On shore, skin filters water
from light, paper from tissue.

Small stones drawn from the sea
mix the brow of shell.
Two hands raise a patch
and a trail of collage follows.

At the onset of thunder
you describe lightning art –
glass staged by voltage.

I think tadpole shadow,

sand caught
between shoulder blade
and back.

On shore, the first break,
the second –
then we leave.
Calling my name
you shake the blanket,

my skin in there somewhere
and yours too.

Tyler Kline balances his time between working on an organic vegetable farm and studying English at The University of Delaware. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Saint Katherine Review, Rust + Moth, and San Pedro River Review.