Tuesday, July 24, 2018

My Ocean

Where it rolls is left behind
Over sand wash working nights
High above the book from fingers slips to floor
Wake lean over get it back
See the dirt a bug a license lost
And he is you asleep anew and older too
Sheets and bones a rosary slips from fingers to the floor
But every time you give it back
It slips again and rolls on sheets
And knuckles washed and pointing to the floor

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