Warm weather low tide.

Hope Your curiosity  didn’t spark a storm

that you now can’t control the words too

The ones that you refrain from using

the scribbled notes flying 

As that mind eyes down at low tide.
the one you imagined trawling nets along the banks

That you refill with crosswords falling from holes in 

My pockets. 
ships carcuses that may refloat but remain submerged

Under the stranglehold of the sands on its worn hull

the identity flaking and peeling away.