THIS LUCKLESS OCEAN
With the words still coming,
the tides rose and the tides
fell, and I myself walked
away muttering. Hard to
hear words with the roar
anyway : The mean way
the ocean curls; making
granite from the churning
swirls. That's the way it
hits, sometimes. Like a
brick. I kid I knew, way
back when, died from it.
-
The luckless ocean tore
him up and his surfboard
cracked his head enough to
kill him. Now, I just maybe
walk sometimes and think
of him - and oh so how
many others. This rising
matter; this Luna punch;
this grainly-seaweed
kingdom of Poseidon's
bunch. I fetch no flowers
for the mourning, simply
moving along my way.
moving along my way.
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