January 27, 2013


Beneath the dying Mexican sun,
the tide carried us on its shoulders
and promised us one last time
that we were giants.

We came out of the sea,
limp weeds clinging to our water-worn ankles,
dried cheeks stinging.
The blue sang behind us, foaming,
chasing our salt-flaked legs.

Come back, it called.
We stumbled away, blinded by the softening darkness.

From behind windows,
we gazed out:
the moon rising like a tributary halo.

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