Dark water tickles sand
With tiny fingers (tinier
than mine) and comes
Back, back, back
As if pushed by the hand
Of some tinier God. My eyelashes

Droop like
Spanish moss over my eyes,
They oscillate back and forth
Between sleep and sand and
Land comfortably on apathy;

I’d like, however, to dance like
Smoke that twirls from some snuffed
Candle. I could stir through
The air like some lost sunset that
Lingers on top of the glossy water,
Delicate, like
Fine China, locked away.

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