fills your shoes as you walk
along
Sandy Point.
the rough waters, blue and bruised
under
a weak sun
continues what it's
meant to do.
the twin
bridges across the fists
of waves
unfolding their steel span.
sailboats
like handkerchiefs
caught in the wind,
lost kites
without strings or hands
to pull them in.
but this sand.
these ancient granules
are underfoot so
you stop and pour them out,
as you do
so often with memories
gone south.
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