Green waters, silk as chitin, undulating
neath crimped love;
a whisper moves mountains if one
knows how
to whisper—

swells, peel off the grief, the bitter
banquet is swiped from the tabletop and
the body, breathes.
Shoreline is in the distance. Making

prophecies, sheering wool and covering
sins in heavy
warmth, daring to move with the
waves just so, as a pebble

to be washed up, and claimed
under the sun. I haven’t
the soul to fight the tides;
yet, not the heart

to be done.

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