by Gideon Burton
Compose a fresh redundancy for me
as I await the weaving of the hues
that play along the quiet ocean's smooth
opacity. I think I'm ready to agree
to such rehearsals and the odd degree
of leniency: the hours find their groove,
their pulsing pulses till it doesn't move.
And suddenly, the night swells up the sea
until the tide's horizon bursts the edge --
perimeters transgressing and transgressed --
crustaceans, galaxies, and sandy shoes
enmeshed in cooling currents, summer wedged
between my yawning and your cotton dress.
It all repeats, the evening with its ruse.
Photo: René Ehrhardt
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