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SEASIDE NOCTURNE
This is how you and I liked our beach – a squelching stretch too cold and dark for screeching radios and squealing kids – just steady wind and a slow systolic beat from somewhere beyond the known horizon, where moving air stirs a slumbering sea whose heavy breath arrives with a rolling crump like cannon fire too distant to do us harm. Yet the tide of human care seems always ebbing, ebbing, as if the edge of everything were created only to be eroded away. While I invigilate the dark, the surf, once our lingua franca, is mine alone, a flat patois of cold indifference. First Published in Envoi © David Olsen 2011 |
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