The ruins of the day—scraps
of sun strewn among
the hollows of the sand—are soon undone
by night’s hand. The way the wind
can wash the sea
or flatten a row of grasses
with a single sudden gust. The way
a word can unfurrow a brow.
So with you, I could lay down
at the water-crushed edge of a shore.
Only the moon would remain
untouched, but still—to my eyes—
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 4.
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