March 22nd, 2010
sounds #6: washed up
dirty like a barnacle
dull and prehistoric
my torn edges
just above the tide line
I hear his pulse in the surf
his fingers rasp the sand
and search for mine
the sun angles me
dries muck into my hair
my warm breasts
peaking shell-like
I watch the horizon
salt-rough
stare straight
until his hands recede
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