Your hands carry seashells;
a blessing
Neither words
or silk against bare knee
The sea turtles carry
yesterday on
their backs
Heavy, like the rusting
coils
twisted into wet sand
A distant scent of vanilla and
rotting fish
The only thing to come now
is the sea
Nothing, nothing but a
great space
of white and citrine
There are many kinds of
open
Open
like the blood of the old
that empties
into drains in the
mortuary
Someone is standing by the
water’s edge
calling out for it to eddy
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