The Shore

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This would be a day

I read the skies and

am rendered silent.

This would be a day

for walking long on

shores of vast expanse.

I have been the sort of man

I fear would rise again in moments of

resolve. When I see him on the

street or in the pew or in the

mirror, his translucence quivers

close to the frequency of

fleshliness until I blink him down

into the backwash, into the

riptide of graces, for he was full of

judgment.

So I must walk.

The tall grass of the

dunes is tossing like the

ocean’s anemone.

Waves are faithful of the

sands shaped unseen under the

great breathing of the tides.

Wind upon grasses.

Waves upon sand. Some

steady drawing of my surfaces

out into the depths and gone,

out into the piercing light.

Return for more, o mighty

patience, o mighty

love of the wild and

unspoken, til I am

wind and wave.

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