Sand never stays,

Makes shapes that never stay-shapes.

Ever the vagrant, the transient, the refugee,

She lost her papers somewhere around Sahara:

They were forged, anyway.

She goes where she wants, repeating the souls of fishes,

Of shattered rocks and shell-dwellers.

She channels the wind like whales, like wires, like bridges.

She holds the key to a beach where life crawled up

Out of a soupy sea

And where, at last, under a scarlet sun,

It will trickle back someday.

One thought on “Sand

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