Monday, November 07, 2011

track 3 or track 4

Crackling down
clam shells
melting butter
and brothy ooze
warm and salty
descending a line of inquiry
ruminating sand dollars
cracked in sandy backpacks
climbing behind them
blind to the barrenness
sitting mute
hand working
correcting scrawl
watching people be
laying down on benches
above the sounds
of the twilight beach
dark sand
the "Shhhhhh" of the waves
I am asleep
eyes open to the darkness
my one-room hut
wizened and burned
much lost thought
riding on the cusp
colossal and gone
Clam shells, cockles
tuppence a bag
internal whistles
crows on the line

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