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Shoreline: Pemaquid Beach, Maine.
Even white-caps are gray today:
lacquered waves hurdle apace with rushing skies
in a late, wry September
Backside of the beach,
clam flats spread, the color oats.
We lay our bets, these poker chip days,
me for the clouds, you for the waves.
Spread thin on sand, tired ribs contact,
expand in perfect arrhythmia.
I catch you staring at a blond all shades of gold.
She comes between us, scalpel-like.
We rake seaweed with frozen hands,
collect periwinkles and count them like days for season to circular season
We turn from the shore and leave
our summer selves: ghosts in primary colors, oceans between us, cool waves lapping at what's left.
Common Shores: Welcome
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