The Tide

Cliff’s edge, Christ’s isthmus,
certainty of sound, white crash,
the turning grey uniting tide,
silicon, shale, mixed shells,
footsteps, the sound of gulls
circling on the ocean’s whistling air,
and all the creatures, God’s
creatures, and all the active, living
systems, some high and large,
invisible, and some small; minute in
fact, and vanishingly small,
receding into eternity, like rocks
into sand, like waves into waiting
ocean, like words into open books,
like movement, like electricity, like
gull’s last notes into day.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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