it was written in sand,
wet fingertip imprinting in curves,
chasing a cloud that roared
from white to black–
raining, tracing rivers down
my skin like time will
cut them, stroke by stroke
until the furies rush back
into the sea,
in and out,
digging heels into the warm
white sand and straining to
touch the raindrops on another
Maybe my home
is a ship
and not a brick porch
on a quiet street.
Maybe it is so large
that it explodes
in the sky every morning
with new faces and colors,
maybe so small that its
passage–stuck in a bobbing
glass bottle –makes
waves that wash
away the letters in
the sand.


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