Beach Blanket Digression


Dry Land

I’ve washed ashore

On a spit of gray and topaz.

Is it sand that clings to my face and hands, or dust or time or cake flour?

A sea billows behind me, before me, a thousand voices deep, like locust singing Bach.

I don’t know where to listen. I don’t know why to look.

How did I come here, why did I careen over chartless shoals like a bat on a broomstick?

Did a ship cast me aside, like a tinpot Jonah with a dream and a dime?

Did I plummet, Icarusesque, aglow on melted wings all my own?

Did I seek Nemo’s haven only to be spat out by the stygian blue, both betrayer and betrayed?


Did I hear my name in the waves?


I’ve washed ashore

But have yet to find dry land.


1 Comment

  1. Think of it as the pause before the storm. Time to recover, just a bit, before the next wave sweeps you away.

    And you always hear your name in the waves. In the whispering of leaves, in the quick gasp before the slow exhale.

    Question becomes, do you answer everything that calls your name?

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