Sea glass: the single thing to show for all
the planning. Wrapped in arms, arms
wandering for years, the right arc soul
searching, “Mystic coincidence,” he says,
but that doesn’t create an outline. What
are we supposed to follow? Level out,
my aim gives my poker hands away,
they build cement boxes on the curbs
so nothing can hide behind the grass
like crafty Ponce De Leon did—
Cabinet-of-Dr.-Callegari-thin streets.
Out the windows, mist is whittled
down, black skies with gray areas
the most beautiful. Life is how it is,
not how it was… pale razor clams, misfit
shells bigger than feet cut deep when
we try to get to far-shore. We hold salted
scars now, rough foliage not meant for
us. But just because your center card flips
Hanged Man, doesn’t mean you’re hanging.
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