September 9

comments 5
poetry

The night before
a departure,

waiting
for that balm of

Not Here.
It’s supposed to

come in threes,
but between worse,

and worst–
I mean, I can’t

even tell
if this food

has gone bad–
implications are tiring.

I’m going
to the ocean,

to take in the water’s
endless rehearsal

and the steady,
steady shore,

to live
in the littoral–

there’s not one thing
that isn’t somehow in motion,

just I wish they 
sometimes weren’t 

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