The futility of the dew
that crashes against the shore;
condensation stays afloat
when the sky turns its pallor
incomprehensibly gray.
The sound is its complexion.
A whisper passed to my arms;
its hairs straining to listen
to the poetry of moisture.
I am in the empty space
where the mist makes a circle.
The drops not heavy enough
to make patterns on the sand.
I am eighty percent still.
Twenty percent, listening.
Only here can my body
dissolve into atmosphere.
To feel myself evaporate
like the dew into the surf,
my body as redundant
as raindrops in the ocean.
No wonder so many people write
so many god damned poems
about the fucking place.
-e.
_______________________________________________
Five7Five mailing list
[EMAIL PROTECTED]
http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
