a rough sea
hard
on shard sand
stands the end of summer
harder than harder
the waves pound
the west rock wind
stumbles
jet black clouds channel
surf as white as icing
as the sun breaks through
churning it all it all too much
is to stand braced
this way and that in
the ebb and flow as its anger
bites bites bites
wave-chasing gulls pull
muscles necked in flight
and what emollient could ever heal
the bite of a wave’s bladed spite
answer me this
that next wave
could you
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