8.14.11, 8:34 am

by jdavidcharles

There is no hiding here.

White porcelain, steam, the inevitable drip and spill over the edge of it.

 

Somewhere they are swimming past objects of ocean and shell—

there is a shore too, and faces beyond the fog,

eager, waiting.

 

This is the first morning.

I am sorry.

 

Off the coast the breeze (dried leaves

of late summer caught in the current there)

is nothing if not a sighing, faint

moisture in exhalation, the sometime

openness of a world arrested in its giving, its

bounty of sadnesses. You know—you begin,

a sounding of water lapping on

the sand and stone—I think we’re doing okay. I really

think we’re going to be just fine. No need

to respond, just finish your cup

and make your way home.

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