Green to sand to freezing waves
An orange and setting sun
Leaving dual shadows between
Clasped fingers
An image
A nuzzle
A feeling rather than a phrase
This is a thought
Not even a memory
But a possibility for the future
I can walk on this beach in my mind
Sitting with Wislawla Szymborska
She’s telling me to be frank
And that frankly love is stupid
She chuckles at them, holding hands
They too will be washed away
When the tide rushes in
No comments:
Post a Comment