Wednesday, 30 March 2011

Ode to an English beach


to decipher
the love letters

sent by your precambrian self

you sit down with a pen
you imagine to be made
from frozen sunbeams
and write:

"consider/your next move with care/to think love and die/might seem pleasant /but/you will inevitably be driven back /into the sea/by a future self//if you see a way out/take it"

you post it to nowhere

the next morning

that never came

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