Someone else’s sand

Maxine Flasher-Duzgunes

We stand

     on the edges

          of cliffs

     

Falling

     in perfect

          circles,

 

The Snowy Plover

     diving

          for its next

 

meal

     in foot-printed paths

          filled by someone’s

 

Bottled thoughts.

 

When all we are

     is ourselves

          we can

 

Paint

     the foreigner’s

          sea glass

 

With our own

     poem

          then curve

 

Our backs

     for centuries

          by the lighthouse

 

Waiting for

     the narrow hum

          of a reply.

 

Our sand

     is most

          definitely

 

Buried

 

(run over by grained

     memory and the salty

          first drafts of love)

 

under

     miles of

          someone else’s sand,

 

But we cannot

     know

          whether the cyclical washing away

          

In the caverns of our

     throats

          will ever drown

 

The passenger

     and prevent him

          from arranging lyrics to our watery hearts,

 

As if his own

     sand-castle brain

          was swept

 

By our poetry.

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