by Susan S. Keiser
We must have walked a hundred miles
between the beach and marsh that spring;
chipped flint and seaglass, piles of oysters
on scarred tables, spread with yesterday's news.
A broken screen door to the sea is left, the postulate;
an imprecise geometry that taunts your ruin.
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I can still smell the sea air and feel the texture of those tables under my fingers....
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