Blue Mooring

February 2, 2013
Three inches down, the sand
is still warm from the sun
long after night falls.

The grains hold themselves,
their warmth,
in small, quartzy bodies
on the higher-up slope
which the tide seldom touches.

Not ten feet from the salt water,
I lie with them;
I feel their strange fingerprint,
calling me, telling me

to stop being tired
from tomorrow –
to learn to fall off the edge of my dream
and still hold the warmth
of the sun,
three inches down.

The space between thoughts
and out-loud is
nearer to sleep – even as I

sing to the dark,
breaking waves
and I’m not sure
what’s in my mind and what’s
out there.

I seem to find myself
always at the place
where the sea-foam
turns back

and I follow it,
hoping for and dreading
the feeling of it on my toes.

There is still sand,
in the crease of my elbow

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