Shore breeze cuts shroud
tattered wisps, gnarl of cypress
bough, headland lowering down.
She rests at water’s edge,
knees bent along, and hands
splayed back, coursing waves
on the incoming tide slack
bubbled on the sand; sea lifting
pleats into neap flow, skirling
sparkling grains across the bottom.
Distant horizon tint, burnish,
rimmed to her forlorn dream’s
remnants; fog horn grey clarion,
passersby on a promenade above
thoughtless of the coming storm.
Hers alone is a last memory;
many bluffs and many seas, and
on inland boulevards, of theatre
and late repasts, peopled streets
have gone mindless; clutching
better selves, which only vanish,
star wreathed, swift, in each
cloud walled wakening.
Now inclined to the sea,
hands lifted from the surf,
galaxies have flown
from her finger tips, and
dreams have circled
her solemn brow.
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