the
butterflies are playing bingo
your
bags are packed
and
you are looking
down
the boulevard
to
see the billboards calling
in
the fantasy language
of
seaside resorts offering
their
whelp stays
you
slow down
while tangled
in
thoughts
of plank wood
and
pink salts
with
the conditions
for
slow desiccation
of
your ripe
a
perfect basket
catch,
in the tides
the
drive of the wind here
is
a clock of knives
that
carves the smell
of
every memory
that
stays in you
long
after you have left
any
of those places
on
the other side
of
these billboards
the
great water knows
how
to touch a soul
the
way a map and treasure
might
torch a mind
in
slow, roiling and
boiling
pots of desire
bitten
with black iron
held
over the driftwood fire
you
might have dug
into
the sand to feel
the hold of the day's heat
it is slowly releasing
like
your anticipation
in
the car seat
in
the hiss wash
sound
of steam
wave
after wave
you have become
lost in
EJR
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