29 June 2018

Postcard 132

No glass on this beach washed flat. Only sand.
And no fires (see above). Only sand -- a broad gleaming tablet, gold and blank.
My bare feet are cipher markers. My new stick marks lines.
From above my cipher says I walk upright, I'm curious.
My line says I lean a bit to one side.
I strike out an image much larger than me with stick lines scrawled sharp and deep.
My vision, too, has a bit of lean.
My image I can apprehend, but only from one side at a time.
Who can see my lines are straight? My shapes are true? And of course, the tide returns.
The waves step broad and light, strike shallow mark as clear and flat as glass.
What did I say, what did I say?
My darling, I have etched upon you some of my memory
-- some scratched light, some punched deep. A good apprehension of me, sidelong.
And the waves slip back under themselves, then the waves slip in.
And my darling, I have etched upon me some of you, memories from just this side.
All in all we are together overlapping scrawls of wave washed memory.
Oh my darling hold on to me. Oh my darling lost like glass.
From where you are, can you apprehend I am slipping out to sea.
The cipher of my footfall, wave-washed, points to sea.

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