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at the beach

July 23, 2013

Poetry is good, good, good! Not mine, but yours!

lost ironies

the tide is out at
English Bay so far that
the water looks like a
distant strange continent where
freighters breathe 

I’ve walked here from home
just a few blocks through the tourists
with their bicycles and their vapour trails how
odd are the locals with their deadpan 

there used to be shells at the beach
ones to put to one’s ear and
hear creation brawl and blame they
have chosen other beaches now to
convene like bombs waiting for a child’s ear 

tonight poets will abandon the sea a
slogan on an envelope the
tides too predictable its
monsters improbable

how can it be infinite so
close to a sidewalk where
a man with his radio
sells hotdogs

 

 

 

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