BACK GOES THE WEASEL
Nomenclature begs a name. Up in
my attic are years of retired shoes. No
one seems to roam any more : sad, sorry,
soleful mending. Put them away for Father
Time. Seas roll in, over the sand, and recede
again. Every in seeks an out. We celebrate this
exchange. Even my dog talks of this : running to
the water yet fleeing from the waves. Running
to the water, yet fleeing from the waves.
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