December 31, 2007

We’re sitting on the shore
With our shoes on,
Our socks in our pockets
(they had gotten wet)
And you’re saying something
About musical fish
That can recognize Beethoven
Sonatas, and I’m trying
Hard to listen,
But you’re talking
In figure eights again
And your words get
Caught up
In the swirling pea soup fog
That hangs around
Your head,
Each breath you take
Puffing them further out to sea
And I cannot help but speculate
How many times
Has that one wave
Moved in on us?

It’s time that I
Found my way home.

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