Walking backward from the sea,
scales shedding, you seek the cave.
This is why the French door admits
only ocean. You stare into the louver
and forget how to get out. Lull
is the word, or loll. The sea returns,
completing your pulse, the waves live,
each breath of yours worship.
Terese Svoboda (b.?) tells all. Here
One sad apple
6 years ago