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I know many lovely girls who
wait on beaches, I know turtles

birth themselves by their egg’s
nervous stirrings. They rock

their little circles in the sand.
The globe shakes itself too, but

it rests on no sand thus
leaves no mark. I rose up

from the sand, I’ll admit.
My skin a salt lick the sun

won’t even acknowledge.
The waves threaten me daily

with their animal shapes.
I name each billow and roller

And cry at their breakage.
I own no bowls, and no spigot,

but my mouth and my hands.
I swallow the ocean one cup

at a time. These marks me
a prophet- now give me a cave.

I’ll take in some visitors,
The muscled heroic ones

strewn on my shores with
their large ships in pieces.

I’ll fill their palms then their
lungs then I’ll flood them with

promises. Cast them back to the
beaches and tell them to wait.

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