It's no cosmic trajectory.
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Just the Winthrop-sea road
and the shooshing sounds of cars
as they suck the wet road. This
and the sight of starfish, flung
and dead as they litter up the bushes.
This is what the storm leaves us.
Together we walk, yet we are apart.
I hear nothing but the hollow sound
of insomnia and grief, for which no pill
promises relief. See m fingers fly:
think white across the page, snow capped
and tipped. Words form, their curls an
open-mouthed infant, newly weaned
Even now, I could pick you from a crowd
of thousands. You coat that splits
like a dove tail, your face purposeful,
determined. Your dance-like walk -
uniquely yours, some Scicilian half-
tango, it still lives in your blood,
It is there when we part.
It is there when you move.
It is there when you walk away.