Sea Level

It’s more difficult
not to feel like a fool—

see him coming down,
clouds lingering…

These higher altitudes
don’t cover the past,

his eyes lock for the shot,
all feathers falling

in the mud… You aren’t
the only who sees

her as a sharpened
sword, silver hands send

quivers to the bone,
but doesn’t bend them.

All the waves wandering
against the shore

don’t show indentation
of his palms, long red slice

running through center–
Telltale showing when

we’re going to relapse, never
changing with evaporation…

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