Friday, August 20, 2010

On the Spit of Land at Sand City Beach

If you
live in a world of the tide
you keep tables
for the in an out of the ocean.

I watch as the cold
water pours toward the land
flooding the path
endangering escape.

And the landlocked city
from which I came
cries once in a while.
I hear it, feel a tug.

I won't go home
won't listen to it
as it weakens, soon to vanish,
break its haunting.


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