My Own Secret Poem


We might hope the sun will cease
to kill and make alive after some millions
of years have passed and seas have
boiled away leaving sand and stone blown
smooth, that all seen and unseen will
be remade in fires of resurrection –
if we so hope as nights grow longer,
we will find an end even now to the pain
of a mind made mad, of a heart grown old.


Along the shore gulls at rest,
a small river forms as the tide recedes;
all who wish may come and drink
though the water is salty –
calcified fragments of a sand dollar
crumble in my hand, the sea
calm, a shimmering
lure in the slanting winter sun.

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