Water comes to your feet then leaves,
You are standing at the sea.
The moon is a vicious circumference
Of dreams, an intruder on the gray
Of the sea. If it was not for the stark legs
Of spring, the winter eyes of comets, the
theories of waves. I pick up sand and put it
Into my pockets, hurtle my shoes. A
Squadron of clouds gathers my biography
And runs away with it, leaving me the rolling
And humble grandeur of starting over

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