The memory of the gulls
each wave, the sea, we failed to see.
Nothing sacred remains,
not one crumb of certainty,
but that which is unholy.
That stampedes upon the garden
nothing left
not even thorn to wound
the offense
a proof of bleeding
something still
transfusable.
A wreck of two
smoke hovered--
soot covered, of bitter fumes
an island without death
without boat.

01/20/2013

Posted on 01/20/2013
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