ARRvol34 master reduced - Flipbook - Page 121
He reminds me of his tides’ approach,
marking progress onto land by a sign
only seen in retreat, predictable
from repetition, when he’s drunk
like this, seeing things we will not say.
Maybe we could have earned our right
to return to port,
where the lights are cool
in the rocks, and the coast carries dawn
and dusk, in honest rain and fogs,
where life abides,
and the waves crack
and roll with the city’s many voices
on the land, echoed back,
intact,
as found.
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