Thursday, November 25, 2010

From a beach.

If we could choose what to corrupt knowing
None can go clean our beds would be made differently.
The marvel in memory would be unusual.

Each stitch of our fading picture would cling as one

Servitude would be a kind of vacation.
On the left the infinite would light the beach sand,
On the right you would lie--

Your expectations and the hours bereft of all I have done
In the distress of tranquility.

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